Harry Potter and the Butcher of Hogsmeade
by Yagr of Nar
Summary: Harry's schooling gets derailed. Dumbledore's manipulations cause great dissatisfaction among his allies. Lucius Malfoy goes on trial. And Snape is forced to act as a babysitter.
1. Default Chapter

This is fan fiction.

The settings and most of the characters are property of J K Rowling.

I am making no profit on this material - all of this is written just for fun.

Dedicated to:

Lady Silvrene

This is a completed work, a novel-length adventure commencing in the summer following Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts. It has been rated "R" for Language, Violence, and a Death Eater Revel's debauchery. I will be posting the story in segments in order to provide myself time to format it properly. However, the story has been finished and will, eventually, make it to this site in its entirety.

I hope you enjoy it.

Yagr of Nar

Harry Potter and the Butcher of Hogsmeade

Chapter One

When his fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was complete, the last thing Harry Potter wanted was to return to his aunt and uncle's home in Little Whinging. But it looked as though there would be no other choice for him.

Classes were over, exams finished, the final projects for the year turned in. A grand banquet had been held, the first years congratulated on surviving... or on something... Harry had been unable to pay much attention to the whole banquet-speech-presentation brouhaha, it had seemed like a lot of rot at the time. In retrospect, it still seemed like a lot of rot. He couldn't have even honestly said which house had won the House Cup. Had anyone won it? He wasn't sure. The entire year behind him seemed a blur of punishment, humiliation and horrible, horrible loss.

It hadn't been nearly as bad for most other students. He had seen many smiling faces and laughing, congratulatory conversations as he had made his way through the ancient stone corridors of the building. But the school's population had already dropped precipitously from what it had been only three days previously. The students who had been given permission for early departure were already gone. Most of the children of the most prominent families of wizarding Great Britain had been walked off the school grounds and apparated home by parents eager to have their precious offspring back. Malfoy was already gone, and most of Slytherin House was empty, its students, by and large, taken away in exactly that manner.

'Maybe the brats have summer jobs, and their folks can't wait to see the little monsters working their fingers to the bone,' Harry thought bitterly. But he knew it wasn't true. Even Malfoy, leaving the building on his way to the nearest apparition point, walking solemnly next to his scowling mother, had seemed excited and proud to return to his family, despite the chaos of legal wrangling that must be tormenting that household.

Harry climbed several staircases until he faced the hidden staircase to Headmaster Albus Dumbledore's office. Instead of a passageway there was a gargoyle, the very picture of guardian demon, challenging any who would dare come this way. So as not to confuse the stone beast, Harry pronounced the password very carefully. "Divinity."

The gargoyle seemed to bow its head and slink backward as it turned to clear the passage. The solid marble column behind the thing began to turn in place, stairs protruding from its smooth surface. Once the transformation was complete, Harry could take the stairs to the Headmaster's office. He paused for a while to consider the arrangement before him.

Those who lived exclusively in the wizarding community had missed out on quite a lot of what made a man literate in the rest of the world. Devils below implied angels above. A stairway to heaven was the most natural connector. 'Divinity,' indeed. When wizards heard the word, they thought of the fluffy white candy. Dumbledore was more sophisticated than that. Harry knew that the stairway's security terms were changed every few weeks. But he noted that this particular password had only been adopted when most of the student population was already gone or in the process of leaving. Well, Dumbledore had always claimed to be on the side of the angels. Perhaps that was all the meaning that should be ascribed to the word. It was just a key to make the stairs work, anyway, no more significant than a combination to a muggle safe. Harry laughed suddenly, recalling that every bicycle lock his cousin Dudley had ever had bore one of two combinations. Each one was either 36-24-36 or 69-69-69. Dudley still couldn't understand how his bikes were consistently stolen whenever one of his friends needed a ride. He'd never even twigged that it was his own cronies who were taking the bikes. Since the stolen bikes were usually found within a day of going missing, tossed over somewhere in Little Whinging, there had never been that much trouble about the thefts. And Dudley had never changed his combinations, either.

Harry mounted the stairs and emerged in the cluttered, oversized office of the Headmaster. Dumbledore never seemed to be surprised in his own lair. Certainly, the creaking and groaning of the column-to-stairway transformation would have awakened even a sound sleeper, but Harry suspected it was more than that. Every time he had ever entered this office, the Headmaster had been comfortably composed, patiently waiting as though every unexpected visit was the most important item on his agenda.

The Headmaster rose from his seat behind his wide desk, his white robes, white hair and beard all flowing with the motion. He picked a delicate glass dish from among the riot of items that crowded his desktop, and held the dish out toward his visitor. "Sugar ribbon?"

"No thank you, sir," Harry replied nervously. The Headmaster popped one of the brightly colored, twisted ribbons of hard candy into his mouth and held the dish behind himself at approximately desktop height. He released the delicate candy holder and Harry winced, waiting for the crash. Instead, the dish floated lazily back to its place on the desk. The old wizard never seemed to notice the magic that had saved his candy dish. But Harry suspected that the levitation - like so much of what Dumbledore did - was very deliberately presented to add to the mystery and aura of immense power the Headmaster carried with him. The old man had an undeniable presence, Harry admitted to himself. He was, close up in person, awesome - in the old sense of inspiring an almost overwhelming sense of amazement and... what else could Harry call it... worshipfulness. The Headmaster was powerful. One could almost sense the magic crackling about him even when he was simply standing about. But there was something more. A piercing intelligence that remained constantly at work behind even the most rambling and unfocused of Dumbledore's public façades. The old wizard could afford to appear sleepy and absent minded simply because he never truly was either of those things.

With a start, Harry realized that Dumbledore was waiting for him to speak. The boy cleared his throat and began his appeal with an apology. "I searched for the proper way to do this, sir. But I was unable to find one. So I find myself having to come to you, directly." He felt like kicking himself. He was already botching his pitch. He had practiced an elegant speech - something that he imagined Malfoy might say. But when it came to actually spitting it out, here was plain-spoken Harry Potter again, sounding particularly whiny and rambling. He meant to continue, but Dumbledore was already waving a hand toward him, lazily indicating he should remain silent.

"It's ... hrrmm... not all that ... ahhh ... staying at Hogwarts over the summer .... is it?" The old wizard wheezed and whined his way through the question as though searching for a polite way to tell Harry that his robes were covered with animal dung and both his shoes were untied.

"That's precisely it, Professor," Harry said, worried at the way his request had been anticipated. "My muggle relatives do not now, and have never wanted me..."

Dumbledore's voice was quiet, but he effectively cut off Harry's rehearsed appeal. "Your aunt Petunia, in particular, does care for you."

Harry was immediately angry at hearing that. What right did this old recluse have to make such a statement, when Harry had years of experience to contradict it? "I used to fantasize that she did," he spat. "I used to imagine that when Vernon was gone and their little spy, Dudley, was out, that she might show me some kind of sign that would have said 'we're blood relatives, we're in this together.' No, sir. If anything, she hates me worse than Vernon. And I'm nothing but a punching bag for their son."

Dumbledore looked at the boy with a sad but kindly expression. "Among adults," he said, apparently ignoring Harry's outburst. "Coercion takes many forms. Have you ever considered that your aunt may be as much a prisoner of her husband - and of the obligations she feels to her marriage and to her own offspring - as you feel yourself to be a prisoner of 4 Privet Drive?"

"I did once," Harry replied sourly. "When I was still too young to attend school. Since then, my aunt has instructed me very fully in the way of things among proper, normal people. She values her husband and is proud of him. She is glad she married him and is happy with the 'offspring' they produced. What she feels a prisoner of is her obligation to care for me. And how you managed to coerce her into doing it is... it's a testament to your own power as a wizard. I imagine it took a powerful curse to force that service from her."

"Oh... My dear boy..." Dumbledore said mournfully. "Nothing could be further. I did not curse your aunt. It would have been... she's a muggle, you see - or a squib, more properly. It would have... It just wouldn't do, you understand."

"What I understand," Harry said, summoning all his courage to face the wizard before him directly. "Is that - no matter how it may have been started, my staying at Privet Drive has long outlasted its usefulness. I need to study - I don't think any of my professors would argue with that! Ask Professor Snape if a little more work wouldn't help..."

Once again, Harry found himself shouted down by a voice that was barely raised above a whisper. But this time, Dumbledore's rebuttal was not reassuring. If anything, it was cause for further worry. "As you must know... after the events of the past term... I am under a great - and increasing - deal of pressure from the Ministry of Magic. Hogwarts is a school." Dumbledore stared pointedly at Harry until the boy nodded slightly in agreement. For his part, Harry felt stupid even nodding in acknowledgement of such a stupidly obvious statement as that one. Of course Hogwarts was a school. 'School' was even in the complete name of the institution. Nevertheless, Dumbledore waited until he had seen that nod before he continued. "As such, we are obligated - by government decree - to provide a safe environment for our students." Dumbledore waited once again for Harry to nod his understanding of that statement before going on. "During the regular school term, our entire staff works very hard to ensure that each student remains safe. Often, we fail." Harry saw, as clearly as if a movie of the scene had been projected, the death of Cedric Diggory. 'Kill the spare.' He shuddered, and as he did, Dumbledore drove home his next point. "Each failure only increases government pressure on us, and allows more and more Ministry intrusion in every aspect of our operations." Harry could feel the scars on his right hand inflicted by the Ministry-mandated punishments of last term and he wondered how much more intrusive the Ministry could be. Thinking about the independence of his beloved school, Harry was completely surprised by Dumbledore's conclusion. "Frankly, dear boy, not to put too fine a point on it, but we do not have enough babysitters to allow you to stay at Hogwart's over the summer."

Harry's face reddened. His ears pounded with his pulse. His fists clenched at his sides. He replayed the Headmaster's last statement over and over in his mind, trying to tell himself he had misheard, that the man had said something else. It was a useless exercise. He had heard perfectly clearly. 'Babysitters.' 'Not enough babysitters.' He stared at the old wizard, and at least some of the debilitating awe dropped away. He took a deep breath, intending to sound reasonable, but when his voice emerged, it was a deep growl. "Not to put too fine a point on it, Professor, but you forget who I am. I hardly knew myself for the past five years. I heard 'boy who lived' and thought that referred to something in the past. Now I know. Now that I have defeated your greatest nemesis, Lord Voldemort, five separate times; now that I have seen your 'Order of the Phoenix' that has been raised against the Dark Lord's return; now that I have witnessed the puerile stupidity of the Ministry of Magic first hand; now I know. I am your primary weapon. I am the point of your attack. I am your only hope of defeating your worst enemy. Let me get something in return for that for once. Let Professor Snape be right this one time, let me get special treatment because of who I am. Do you fear the Ministry? Do you believe you will have to declare a proper 'babysitter' for me? You have Hagrid. He would be delighted."

Dumbledore's expression had not changed throughout Harry's diatribe. At the end of it, he simply raised his eyebrows and calmly said, "Hagrid has a myriad of magical creatures that he must see to. He will not be able to spare a minute for you all summer, and no one... from the Ministry, for example... who might investigate our premises between terms would believe that he would be able to."

Harry stared back at the old man in amazement. "You have Filch," he insisted.

Dumbledore sighed. "As much as it seems as though Argus spends his time looking after you children during the school term, he is in fact a caretaker. And Hogwarts has a great deal of care that must be taken to keep her functioning properly. The summer is a very busy time for Mister Filch - busier even than the regular term, since there are no students to get in the way of his work during the summer months. And that is a very important factor in the decision to keep all students out of the school between terms. A moving staircase... or, hrrmm... a sliding wall that was... as it were... being realigned by the caretaker could easily... ummm... crush a student who was wandering the halls."

"Give me a job, then," Harry demanded, stung by how little effect his words had on the Headmaster. "Everyone else in the castle over the summer has a job. Hagrid cares for the creatures, Filch cares for the castle... who cares for the plants? Professor Sprout can't spend all year here, can she?"

"Hmmm... well, no," the Headmaster mumbled. "Professor Sprout has... as you might expect... her own life... quite apart from the castle and the students and the like. But she is... how shall we say... very... urm... dedicated to her plants. She wants only the finest care for them. Which is why, I believe, she recommended your classmate, Mister Longbottom, for the position. Young Neville has coveted the position all term, I understand. And he is quite... ahhh... intuitive with the plants, wouldn't you say? Yes, indeed, quite... erm... quite a natural with the nature... uh... botanics... ahh... Herbology. Yes. But Professor Sprout made it quite clear to the boy that hiring was not done by her, and that the job was not hers to give. Neville knows that the decision is up to me. So. I could put you in. Give you the job. Instead of him." The old wizard steepled his fingers and stared at the boy over their tips.

"I couldn't do that to Neville," Harry complained.

"Hrmm?" the Headmaster prompted.

"I mean... if he's wanted it all term, and Professor Sprout has recommended him and all, and you say he's the best candidate for the job." Harry had a brief vision of Neville's imposing grandmother, with whom the boy would have to stay if he were sent home, standing implacably in her ridiculous stuffed-vulture hat. In fact, Harry realized that he had never heard Neville's grandmother speak in any way other than snapping commands - or stand in any way other than implacably, for that matter. He felt a rush of pity for the boy. "It wouldn't be right, me taking away his chance and all."

"Really," Dumbledore replied suspiciously. "Harry... it has been my experience that in the world of adults - and by adults I mean anyone who does not require a... babysitter - in that adult world, there is little that is ever gained that comes without a price. In this case, you wish to defy Hogwarts tradition, my best advice, and Ministry decree. Your justification for this is your advanced maturity, as evidenced by your success in not being killed by a weakened, crippled Lord Voldemort." Dumbledore saw the look of defiance cross Harry's face, and his sudden wrathfulness was truly shocking to the boy. "Yes!" the Headmaster thundered. "I said weakened and crippled! Before you tell me what a great warrior you are, recall that your fat, stupid cousin Dudley can still beat you like an old pillow any time he cares to!" Suddenly, Dumbledore the sympathetic old man was back where the wrathful patriarch had stood only an instant previously. "So, you want to stay here, you claim you are mature enough to make the decision to do so. The price is your friend's summer job. Is that really so much to pay?"

"It is when I'm not the one paying it," Harry insisted. He raised his chin in a pose that was pure Gryffindor. "I can't take Neville's chance from him. But I shan't be returning to the Dursley's either. You can put me on the train, I can be forced to go to London, but I won't be going back to Little Whinging!" His face fell as uncertainty returned to his demeanor. "I'm not even certain I could if I wanted to."

For once, it was Dumbledore who looked confused. "What's that, boy? Can't? Your uncle. He'll pick you up at the station, and back you'll be. Hogwarts Express to your uncle's car to Privet Drive. What could be simpler?"

"No," Harry insisted with genuine annoyance. "My uncle will not be at the station. He told me last year when he dropped me off. He's convinced that I have money here. He can't imagine any other kind of money than pounds. I couldn't explain a galleon or a sickle to him if I tried. He thinks I have money - because I got the robes, and the wand and things - so he told me: 'No more free rides.' If I wanted to ride home from London, I could bloody well hire a taxi. If I was too stingy with my own cash to pay for a ride, I could walk. I have no muggle money, Headmaster, and I will not be walking to Little Whinging to satisfy my uncle's cheapness."

"Well... that's irregular." The Headmaster walked back behind his desk and began to rummage through several of its drawers. "By all means, I can change a sickle or two for you... I believe I have some muggle money around here somewhere... let's see... pound notes, is it? Yes. Here we go. This should exchange very neatly for a galleon."

"I won't be needing it," Harry proclaimed.

"You just said you would need to hire a taxi..." the Headmaster sighed, and was cut off by Harry's tart rejoinder.

"I also said I'm not going back to the Dursley's. I'll go to Diagon Alley. I'll sleep behind the Leaky Cauldron if I have to... but I don't think I will have to. I do have wizarding money in the bank. I can live for a season - especially the summer. I might even get some other summer job. But I'm not going back to the Dursley's."

"Harry," Dumbledore said sadly, his eyes full of sympathy. "You said you were my weapon, my point of attack against the darkness that threatens us all. Do you think I would surrender my weapon so easily? If you do not go to your family's home, Death eaters will take you within a week. They might merely kill you. I believe that would be a mercy. They would more likely capture you. And that would give our mutual enemy an advantage that I will not allow him to have. So you are left with two choices. If you leave Hogwarts, you will return to your aunt and uncle's home - if I have to send dementors along with you to ensure your arrival. If you do not leave Hogwarts, you will take your classmate's summer job."

"And what about Neville?" Harry demanded, shaking with rage - and with fear. The dementors alone were enough to frighten anyone. And the threat of being delivered into the hands of the Dursley's by the soul-sucking monsters was enough to leave Harry trembling.

"What about him?" Dumbledore murmured with a shrug. "He will doubtless get some more experience by working in the greenhouses next term. And he will probably take next summer's job - if one is offered by Professor Sprout, of course."

"And next year, Neville will hate me for taking his job," Harry said bitterly.

"Oh, no... that problem is completely circumvented by the manner in which the employment is granted." Dumbledore smiled absently, staring off into space. "Professor Sprout will explain to Neville - before he leaves the grounds this year - the truth. That I decided to keep the... boy who lived... on Hogwarts grounds. For safekeeping. And that I... also decided to... ummm... kill two birds with... as it were... one stone. By having you serve the Herbology professor during your time... on campus. And - unless anyone were to tell Mister Longbottom differently - that makes it all... my fault. In which case, Neville should hold no animosity toward you."

"That's rather selective truth," Harry replied.

"All truth is selective," Dumbledore stated. "The muggle scientists have a principle. They call it - rather inaccurately - 'uncertainty.' It is a principle by which, they state, that if you know one quality of a thing, you cannot simultaneously know another quality of the same thing. Now, the quality you do know is sure. You are absolutely certain of it. But you can only know one thing at a time. That is not uncertainty - that is selective truth." The Headmaster looked over the rims of his crescent moon glasses, eyes sparkling. "And that, my boy, is science. It's not even magic."

Harry stood speechless for a long moment. Having Albus Dumbledore suddenly quoting Heisenberg to explain the Headmaster's own brand of politics was so far removed from anything Harry could have expected, he was unable to formulate any response at all. When it became obvious that the old wizard was not going to say anything further, Harry stammered, "So, I'll stay at Hogwarts. And you will force me to take Neville's job away from him."

Dumbledore smiled. "Good lad," he said encouragingly. He reached absently toward his desktop and the candy tray floated up to meet his hand. "Truffle?" he offered vaguely. The hard candies were gone, replaced by chocolate covered bonbons. Harry shook his head weakly and Dumbledore selected one of the sweets for himself. He dropped the dish unthinkingly and it floated back to its place, landing with a gentle click.

Dumbledore remained silent for a long while, and Harry wondered if he had been dismissed - or merely forgotten. He took a step backward and Dumbledore suddenly looked up and met his eyes. In that moment, Harry could see that the old Professor was hardly the sleepy, absent-minded ancient that he often pretended to be. His gaze was intense, and he locked Harry's eyes with his own. Ominously, he said, "Just because you are on Hogwarts grounds does not mean that our enemies remain idle. While this building may well be the most magically-warded edifice in the world, and whereas our grounds may constitute the most magically-protected piece of property on the planet, your safety is hardly ascertained if you are alone. A truly determined enemy might eschew magic altogether, and simply walk up to you and bash in your head with a hammer. Don't look so shocked! Such things do happen in the world, I can assure you. When you have had your... adventures... in the past at this school, you have had your friends at your side. And your safety has always been a priority of our staff. There will be fewer allies to call upon during the summer months. Despite your claims to maturity, I will have a babysitter for you. A lifeguard, if you prefer."

Under the unwavering gaze of the Headmaster, Harry felt that facing Dumbledore would be a greater threat than battling Voldemort had ever been. But the old man was waiting for some sort of acknowledgement of his statement. Harry didn't want to merely nod again. He felt enough like a puppet already. It took a bit of searching, but Harry finally found his voice. "If you insist," he squeaked, sounding more like a little boy than the mature adolescent he had claimed to be.

"I do," Dumbledore said, once again lapsing into his wispy, old man's voice. He settled into his desk chair and selected another candy from his dish, neglecting to offer Harry one. This time, the sweet was a powdery peppermint. "I will be assigning Professor Snape to keep a close watch over you, and to make sure you remain safe. Please cooperate with him in any way that will make his job easier and more efficient."

"Snape," Harry yelped, and Dumbledore's piercing gaze pinned him once again.

"Professor.... Snape. Is quite uniquely qualified to keep you from certain kinds of harm, perpetrated by certain kinds of enemies. He may require assistance. I would suggest that Professor Snape call upon your one-time Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Mister Lupin. He, too, is uniquely able to see certain dangers to which many of us would be blind."

"Profess..." Harry began, and then corrected himself, privately adding a curse against the Ministry officials whose decrees had driven the werewolf from the teaching profession. "Mister Lupin would be.. um..."

Dumbledore waved a hand in a vague dismissive gesture. "Yes, yes. You quite like him. And he quite likes you, and that is exactly the problem. I fear that Mister Lupin would allow you to get away with certain actions that might endanger your life. He was quite an... active... student in his own time here at Hogwarts. I'm sure he would applaud your adventurous nature, and would encourage it - to your detriment. So. Mister Lupin will assist Professor Snape in... lifeguarding you. And you will receive your assignments from Professor Sprout. You may retain your current lodgings - no need to move you around for just the summer. And you needn't worry about any of this until after the Hogwarts Express has departed with the last of the other students. Let Professor Sprout take care of informing Mister Longbottom, and let Professor Snape finish the last of his year's labors before taking up this new burden, hmmm? That way, you can seem to be as ignorant of the particulars of the situation as you wish. That should keep any bad feelings from developing between you and any of your classmates."

Harry had no idea what to say. In a way, he had gotten what he wanted. But he felt as though he had lost. He stood speechless once again, staring at the Headmaster, wondering what had actually just happened.

"Well? That's it." Dumbledore said, rising and moving across the room to show Harry out. The marble column behind the boy began to transform into a spiral staircase once again with a creaking and groaning that inspired no confidence in the stability of the stairs. "Go and enjoy your last day of freedom before we put you to work for your keep, hmmm?"

Harry felt that he should argue, shout, protest. He felt as if he should tell the old wizard that he would be better off sleeping in Diagon Alley than taking this offer. But he couldn't put his objections into words. He only knew that he felt bad about Neville, and worried about being under the direct supervision of Snape. "Yes, sir," was all he said, and descended the stairs away from the Headmaster's office.

--- --- ---

The room was lined in stone. A grey stone floor lay coldly under a high stone ceiling. The heavy blocks that made up the walls could have been set in place centuries ago. Their worn appearance suggested extensive use over a great many years. There was not a crack between them that was not stuffed with a heavy, opaque mortar, yet little of the mortar could be seen. The blocks fit together so precisely that it seemed they would remain permanently fixed without any mortar at all. Black iron sconces were set into some of the blocks at about the head height of a tall man. There were eight of them, each with a wooden torch held upright and alight. The room was quite large, and even eight flaming torches could not banish the shadows from the corners, or clearly illuminate the ceiling. There was nothing else on the walls. No decoration, no hanging tapestry, no paintings obscured the surface. Neither were there windows. There was a door, though set so precisely into the wall that it was not immediately apparent. The room was, upon first inspection, perfectly sealed.

Near the center of the room was a raised stone dais. Upon it sat an immense stone chair. The seat could not possibly have been warm. The stones of the floor were cold to the touch, and there was a definite chill in the air. The symbolism of that heavy piece of furniture could not have been missed, however. It was a throne, raised up above the level of those who might stand on the floor before the dais, oversized to represent the superhuman power of its proper occupant.

The room was nearly silent. The burning of the torches made a very slight hissing, a faint crackle. There was also the wheezing, labored breathing of a single occupant. Nothing more.

The sharp, piercing crack of apparition broke the silence, admitting two figures who kept the quiet from returning. There was a rustling of robes as they appeared, and scuffing of shoe soles against stone. A tall, thin man and a beefy boy, already nearly as tall as the man beside him, stepped forward from the apparition point toward the throne. Still more than a dozen steps from the dais, they stopped to stand shoulder to shoulder.

Severus Snape made a deep, full, formal bow, his black robes swirling to follow his motion, emphasizing its fluid grace. Vincent Crabbe, standing next to Snape, tried to imitate the move, but his attempt was stiff and jerking, clearly an unfamiliar and uncomfortable exercise. His own belly seemed to get in his way, and his bow stalled before it was even half complete. He stayed in that position, partly bent over as though he were a balloon only half-inflated, with his eyes focused on the ground. Thus, he missed Severus' smooth return to an upright position and his immediate assumption of a nearly military posture of attention. A quiet chuff of a cough caught the boy's attention. Vincent glanced to his side, expecting to see Snape's bowed head. Instead he saw nothing beside him. He quickly looked back and found himself staring at his professor's knees. With a gasp of embarrassment, he pulled himself upright and stood silently red-faced, watching the man on the throne.

Severus did not watch the throne. Had Vincent looked toward his teacher, he would have realized that Snape's gaze was focused quite fixedly on a point on the wall directly in front of his eyes. "My Lord." Severus announced clearly, as though the room were filled with attendants, each of whom needed to hear his words. "The initiate is here, as you requested, my Lord."

From his throne, Tom Riddle, the Dark Lord Voldemort, regarded his visitors. He had gone to a certain amount of trouble to create this particular scene. This room, for example, was far too impractical to use for any regular business. It really was as completely sealed as it appeared, for one thing. Back when Voldemort had enjoyed a much larger contingent of followers, it had been someone's regular assignment to apparate air into the room. As simple as the task sounded, it was really a very tricky task, requiring some skill to accomplish properly. The old air, heavily laden with carbon dioxide and usually laden with the smell of human perspiration, would have to be exhausted, and replaced with fresh air, containing plenty of oxygen. Times were not what they once were. There was no one Voldemort could spare from more important duties simply to keep an audience chamber prepared. So the perfectly good room, with its complex magical wards and nearly perfect physical defenses, went generally unused. Another waste brought about by his failure to seize power over magical Britain. A failure caused, in part, by the ineffectiveness of his followers. Ineffectiveness which he would have to overcome by recruiting new volunteers. Volunteers such as the boy Snape was now presenting.

Voldemort nearly smiled, even though he had learned that a smiling Dark Lord did not inspire the necessary levels of fear to insure quick responses by his followers. Leading people had turned out to be a much more paradoxical exercise than he could ever have imagined before experiencing it. His original plans for the conquest of the wizarding world had included detailed guidelines for bestowing rewards upon those of his minions who proved most useful. He soon learned that what the majority of his followers wanted was something quite different. It was not titles and prestige that they craved, but structure and discipline. And power, of course - but power which was held by a strong central authority, that they could experience through being the instruments of that authority. That lesson had led directly to most of Lord Voldemort's style and methods of leadership, including the title 'Dark Lord,' and the designation of his troops as 'Death Eaters.' Those people who flocked to his banner wanted their Lord to be terrible of visage as well as terrible in wrath. They wanted him to mete out severe punishments for failure, and base humiliation for lack of foresight. In return for this, they wanted to wage war without quarter, where surrender was not an option. They wanted to crush their enemies utterly and lay waste to their works. They wanted prisoners, resisters and especially traitors to be killed - not ransomed, and especially not punished and released, deemed to have been rehabilitated. His followers also wanted to be able to evoke the terror inspired by their leader when they did his bidding. The masks for his Death Eaters was one way that Voldemort made this possible for them. Theirs was an absolute, draconian, severe philosophy which led to an absolute, draconian, severe way of ruling. But if those qualities led to a rigid system that could stifle creativity and inventiveness, those very qualities also gave an absolute security that no more fluid system could ever match. It may have been a security based entirely on a particularly severe form of discipline, but such discipline could lead to pinnacles of excellence.

A perfect example of which was Severus Snape. The grim potions master was one of the finest examples of Voldemort's system creating excellence through extreme discipline. Effective. Intelligent. Powerfully magical. And such a good potion maker that the Dark Lord had never needed to order anyone else to brew a single potion. If Voldemort needed veritaserum, or polyjuice, or any one of a wide range of poisons, he had the best there was, because it was made by Severus Snape. One of the reasons Voldemort had charged Snape with bringing the young Crabbe here tonight was to impress the boy with the kind of achievement his future Lord demanded.

The boy, however, had probably missed the lesson altogether. His father was a thug with a slow mind and merely adequate magic. But the elder Crabbe had blood on his side! He was descended from an ancient magical family. Voldemort had been certain that with a good education, the son would turn out to be an excellent example of what he sought in his servants. Unfortunately, Vincent was, instead, turning out to be a thug with a very slow mind and barely adequate magic. The boy would have to be encouraged to apply himself - and he would apparently need quite a bit of help - if he were to fulfill any of the potential the Dark Lord had seen in his breeding.

Vincent stared at the creature seated on the throne in disbelief. Could this possibly be the Dark Lord, his father's master, the scourge of the world? He was small. Frail. Burnt. Or at least, he seemed to have gone through a series of horrible accidents. His skin, or as much of it as Vincent could see - hands and face mostly - was pink and smooth. But not like a baby's. More as though he were completely covered in scars. Most of the features that communicated feeling from a normal face didn't even exist on Voldemort's. There were no discernable lips, just scarring all around his mouth. There were no eyebrows, it was as though those had been burned away. His eyes looked lidless, like a snake's. The smooth pinkness that surrounded them was stiff, not sufficiently mobile to convey the subtle signals that made eyes expressive. Vincent had tried to prepare himself for his first meeting with the Dark Lord. He had imagined someone huge, bulging with muscles, bursting with energy, the proper military leader for the army of Death Eaters that would take over the world. Vincent had steeled himself against quaking in the presence of the leader's might. He had schooled himself against flinching from the leader's powerful voice. He had practiced maintaining a confident expression so the leader would not see his fear. He had never expected anything like this.

Vincent waited for a word, a motion - some sort of command. The Dark Lord simply sat and watched him in silence. Snape was absolutely motionless, as though he had been turned to stone. Crabbe wanted to turn to see if he actually had been turned to stone, but he was unable to force himself to do so. He was afraid. The man on the throne had terrified the entire world, once. He still terrified the toughest men Vincent had ever met. And he especially terrified Vincent's father. If the elder Crabbe could fear this shriveled figure as much as he clearly revered him, then - frail or not - the Dark Lord must be extremely powerful. And he was famous for having short patience and dealing out horrendous punishments. So VIncent stood and stared, afraid to move. And as he did, he felt as though he could see past the outer layers of scar. Or perhaps the Dark Lord was reaching out to him. Whichever it was, as he stood there, Vincent felt something happening to him; something that affected him very deeply.

To his horror, Crabbe felt his eyes begin to water. There was a twitching high up on his cheeks. His breath caught. Terrified, Vincent realized that he was going to cry, and he had no idea why. All he knew was that he was not thinking of how disgusting Voldemort's face was; he was not thinking that he should feel sympathy for a man who had been through horror that would leave such scars; he was not thinking of how afraid he was of the magical power the man before him wielded. He was feeling all of it, deeply and profoundly. Pit of the stomach, roots of the teeth deeply. His anus clenched, his testicles rose to meet his torso, his hands and feet became cold and a wave of dizziness washed over him as his blood left his extremities. He felt disgust. He felt sympathy. He felt fear. He would have run if there had been any avenue of escape. Had he been able to apparate, he would have been away from this room in the time it took to think it. He would have left the country, changed his name, dyed his hair and lived as a muggle if he could just have been away from here. But there was nowhere to run. And he could not yet apparate. He was trapped. He felt his mind receding, his thoughts fading. He had already accepted his own death. He would be run down by the train, eaten by the snake... whatever it was, it had already happened, and there was no need to be conscious for the last horrible moments of his own destruction. It had been good to be Vincent Crabbe. But that time was over. Strangely, he still felt ashamed of crying. His cheeks felt dry, he knew he was not sobbing. None of that mattered. He had felt it happen. He had cried. And then he had died. Simple. His vision narrowed to a pinpoint of flame-illuminated stone. The minimal sounds in the room faded below the threshold of hearing.

"Approach me, lad," the Dark Lord commanded, and watched as the boy seemed to awaken and take several hesitant steps forward. Voldemort had never believed in hypnosis. He consigned the supposed proofs of the phenomenon to the same realm as the stage magic muggle entertainers used to amuse the witless. But the Dark Lord was a pragmatic leader and a frugal ruler. He would not waste a perfectly good effect if it happened to occur fortuitously. And Voldemort had long known that something very like what hypnosis was supposed to be occurred when he faced those who were weak of mind. He was sad to see the effect displayed so clearly in the young Crabbe, but it was not any worse than he had anticipated. The boy's mind was as weak as his actions had led the Dark Lord to believe.

Still, there were always uses for a slow - but strong - minion. In this boy's case, his usefulness would begin with recruitment. His school was filled with potential Death Eaters. But even the oldest Hogwarts students thought of volunteering for Voldemort's service to be something associated with their parents' generation. Many of the young witches and wizards in the school had stories about 'what Mom and Dad did during the war.' Or worse, 'what Grandmom and Granddad did during the war.' These children had to be introduced to a new idea: that serving the Dark Lord was something for them to do. Someone had to propagate the concept, had to spread the encouragement: 'Do it together!' 'Join with your friends!' 'Come en masse - there's room for all!' There were plenty of hooks to add to those lines. The chance for rebellion. The opportunity to overthrow the established order. The promise of a good fight. The prestige of being part of the most feared magical organization on earth. And who was better placed to deliver such enticements than one of the school's premier bullies? If Victor Crabbe was going to join up, the Dark Lord's army must really be bad-assed. Or so Voldemort hoped. If he continued to rely on his current minions bringing in their offspring, he would have insufficient numbers to make any significant attempt at wresting control of the magical world away from the Ministry and its toads, not to mention the powerful wizards who had opposed him in the past.

Crabbe's hesitant steps brought him to the edge of the dais, and it appeared that the boy would step up and continue walking all the way to the throne. That was not such a serious error. Voldemort had commanded him to 'approach,' and the Dark Lord would rather see a servant obey an order until commanded to stop than see one leave an assignment uncompleted. Voldemort held up a single warning finger and the boy halted immediately. "It is so good of you to come," Voldemort said with a saccarine smoothness. "Your father served me..." he paused, trying to recall the approximate date on which the elder Crabbe had entered his service. To his surprise, Vincent interrupted his musing.

"He still does, Sir," the boy said earnestly.

Voldemort stared at the young Crabbe with exasperation. He reminded himself that the boy did not know the proper way to behave in his Master's presence. But something other than the boy's insolent interruption galled him. It was the poor thinking. "How do you know?" the Dark Lord demanded.

"He told me. Last time I saw him. He said so."

"And when was that?" Voldemort inquired lightly. He enjoyed watching the effort Severus had to expend to keep from squirming. Snape knew what a fool the initiate was making of himself, but the man was helpless to do anything about it. Very amusing.

"Last Thursday," Vincent replied promptly. "He left the house - just after dinner, it was - and he said that he was proud that I got to come meet you, and that he wished he could have brought me here himself, and he reminded me that he was loyal in your service. Sir."

"And where did your father go after that?" Voldemort's question was still light, his tone bantering, almost playful. With a thrill of glee, he noticed that Severus was beginning to sweat. In this chill air, that betrayed a great deal of stress.

Crabbe's face fell. He had no idea how to answer that. He waited, but the Dark Lord was looking at him expectantly, so he tried the technique he used when he was stumped at school: he began talking, hoping to gain some clue as to whether he was on the right track by watching his interrogator's face. Given Voldemort's scarred mess of a face, that would be a good trick in itself. "I... can't say. Sir. He doesn't tell us where he goes. Often, I mean. Like, so that it's regular - a habit, like - so that if he ever did have to go someplace... you know, secret, I mean... that..." he shrugged as though the conclusion of his comments should be obvious to anyone.

"But you said 'Still,' Vincent," Voldemort said with a kindly tone. "The word 'still' implies as of right now. You don't know where your father is, now, do you?" The boy shook his head, obviously confused. "You don't know what happened to him since Thursday night, do you?" Vincent shook his head again, looking somewhat alarmed. "In fact, you don't know whether your father was killed fighting one of my enemies, or whether he was killed in a senseless accident."

Crabbe's jaw dropped, his eyes opened wide. "My dad's dead?" he squealed.

Severus slumped. The change was not much, but his shoulders drooped and he nearly closed his eyes, breaking his rigid attention for the first time since he had announced the initiate's arrival. Voldemort caught his eye, and Snape knew that he had been caught. That was enough. Snape knew that he had been wrong, and he knew that his Master knew. He would be perfectly aware that he deserved punishment for his transgression. And Voldemort knew that the resulting feeling of inadequacy in a man who so strove for perfection would be an exquisite punishment. Holding Severus's eye with his own, he grinned and asked, "This is what we have to work with?"

Snape was back into perfect form immediately. "This is but one of our many resources, Lord. We have many others of great quality..."

Voldemort waved a careless hand to silence his servant. "I well know your feelings toward your students, Severus," the Dark Lord said dismissively. "Especially your own Slytherin House. But this one is a product of that House, isn't he?" A glance was enough to inform Snape that no reply was called for. Voldemort turned his attention back to the boy. "No, your father is not dead. So far as I know." He watched Crabbe's uncomprehending face with disappointment. "The lesson you were to have taken from that exchange is that you must never assume what you do not know for a fact. If you have not seen your father, you do not know what your father may be doing, where he may be, or how he may feel. No, don't reply. Just... think about it."

"Yes, My Lord!" Crabbe agreed enthusiastically.

Voldemort sighed. "'Sir' will do fine at this time, Victor. I am not 'Your Lord' quite yet."

The boy's eager face shone with zeal. "I am ready to take the Dark Mark, Mmm... Sir."

Voldemort pursed his lips. He waited to make sure no further boasts were coming, then very deliberately told the boy, "No. You are not. You are not ready to take the Mark. You are under age for one thing. You have at least two years of schooling during which your left arm may be easily exposed to unwanted observation. And most importantly... you have done nothing for me."

The boy's face fell into an expression so miserable it was nearly a parody of disappointment. He looked like a child who had awakened on December twenty-fifth, only to be told that Christmas had been cancelled at the last minute. His suffering was so pathetic, he did not even ask the obvious question, inquiring as to what he could do to be considered worthy.

Voldemort waited a while, then very gently explained what he expected. It took a while, and he found himself backing up and even starting over when he had given Vincent too much to think about at once, but he finally got the main ideas across... he hoped. "Bring me a convert," he concluded. "I expect you to spark interest among many, and to inspire a few to seek me out. But one thing I require of you is this: bring me someone who is not the child of a Death Eater, who has no connection to my operations at all. Someone that you might even think of as being opposed to me. A convert."

"Like Harry Potter," Crabbe suggested without a hint of irony.

Snape visibly winced, but Voldemort had no attention to spare for the man any more. "Yes, Vincent. Like Harry Potter. He would be ideal. Bring me a convert. Someone surprising. Like Harry Potter. Yes. Perfect. Then we will talk again."

"But how do I..." Crabbe protested.

Voldemort glared at the boy, and he froze in mid-syllable, terrified. "Professor Snape will make the arrangements for you. IF you are able to accomplish the assignment. Now go!"

Crabbe began to turn, trying to keep himself from running. A chuff of throat clearing from Snape's direction reminded him, and he backed away from the Dark Lord, as quickly as he could without tripping over his own robe. Once he was shoulder to shoulder with the Professor once again, he made one of his stiff, clumsy bows as Snape executed another of his graceful, elegant ones. Then a crack of displacement signalled the disapparation of the pair.

The Dark Lord sat slumped in his throne for a long while. He had expected little enough, but the young Crabbe was an idiot. He was an inspired idiot, though. 'Like Harry Potter,' indeed. As idiotic as the idea seemed at first, there was something to it. Potter may hold a grudge against him, may even think he felt true hatred for him. But what had Potter ever gotten from the rest of the world? The Boy Who Lived might welcome the chance to rebel, to upset the established order. 'Like Harry Potter,' eh? The Dark Lord wished Vincent Crabbe all the luck in the world.

--- --- ---

The sharp crack of apparition announced the arrival of a man and a boy in the darkened sitting room of a comfortable, rambling two story home. The moonlight streaming through the back windows and the streetlamp light filtering in through the front curtains gave enough illumination to show a gently curved archway leading to a tile-floored living room raised a half-step above this one, and a wide, straight staircase leading upward against one wall. The lower halves of the sitting room walls were wood paneled, and there were small reading lamps set on delicate wooden tables next to a pair of well-padded armchairs at one end of the room, and on either side of the couch set at the other. The low table in front of the couch and the hard-backed chairs that completed the set were very plain. This was the place Vincent Crabbe called home.

Snape paused after the apparation for only a moment, but that moment was long enough to listen carefully. He sniffed, quickly dismissing the scents left behind by furniture polish, air freshener and potpourri. He looked sharply around for telltale shadows. Within instants, he had satisfied himself of what most people would have taken for granted upon their arrival - except for Severus and Vincent, the house was deserted.

Crabbe did not hesitate for any longer than it took him to get his bearings after apparating. His first stop was going to be the kitchen, and he had already taken his first step in that direction when Snape's voice stopped him cold.

The Professor spoke quietly, but his voice carried an intensity of emotion that gave it a terrible power. "Stupid, stupid boy."

Crabbe turned to face his Head of House, hurt and confused. "Wha...?"

The corners of Snape's mouth turned downward in disdain. With melodramatic overstatement he clearly enunciated, "Whaah?" Then turned the full power of his glare onto the boy before him. Crisply, he spat, "What," with a hard snap to the 't.' He paused only long enough to make sure he had Vincent's undivided attention before completing the question. "Were you thinking?" He paused for a second that seemed to Vincent to stretch interminably. Snape appeared to be waiting for an answer, but Crabbe had no idea what the man was even angry about. Snape proceeded to inform the boy. "The rightful Lord of all wizarding Britain offered you a great opportunity tonight. He himself handed you a chance to help us raise our society from the mediocrity in which it is mired. It seems to me that the very least you might have said was 'Yes.' If you had wished to seem a little more intelligent than your average village idiot, you might have completed the thought with, 'Yes, I will.' If you had wanted to show that you had some concept of the magnitude of the boon being granted to you, you might have included 'Thank you,' somewhere in your statement. And if you had thought it proper to acknowledge that you are an unproven, unmarked Pre-Death Eater being treated to an audience with your rightful King, you might have tagged on a 'Sir,' or 'My Leader,' or two. Listen to the complete statement I have just outlined: 'Yes, I will, Sir. Thank you, Sir.' It is simple, it is succinct, it communicates your willingness to participate in the suggested program, your gratitude at being allowed to do so, and your respect for the leader of the organization which made you the offer. In fewer than ten words, you could have communicated all that, and shown some sign that you possessed at least the potential for intelligence. If you had to improvise - if you felt you absolutely had to offer up the name of a potential recruit for discussion - you could have mentioned someone whose candidacy showed that, first, you were thinking of the Dark Lord's needs. And second, that you realize which people you have some chance of actually recruiting - and which people you have no chance of influencing at all.

"You could have offered the Dark Lord a child from a ministry family. There would be many advantages to having such an ally. A Weasley, perhaps. Merlin knows there are enough of them. Or you could have offered your rightful lord someone who possesses strength and agility. A Quiddich captain, for example. Oliver Wood comes to mind. Or you might have suggested someone clever. Offhand, I can think of several. Cho Chang would be one. A Ravenclaw, with great intelligence, and an athlete as well.

"But no. You had to mention the one name that represents the single stupidest choice you could possibly have made. 'What about the Boy Who Lived Through Your Curse of Death?' That is what Potter's ridiculous title actually stands for, you know. The 'Boy' 'Lived' when Lord Voldemort cast the killing curse on him. It is famously the only time in his life that a Voldemort curse failed. And he suffered deeply from the effects of that failure. I was surprised that you stopped there, to tell the truth. Why not really rub it in while you had the chance? You could have gone on: 'What about the Boy Who Snatched the Philosopher's Stone From Your Very Grasp?' and: 'What about the Boy Who Killed Your Basilisk?'

"Why didn't you simply wear a T-shirt that read "Lord Voldemort is a Miserable Failure" and make your feelings clear? 'Like Harry Potter?' you asked him. As though you could deliver the Boy Who Lived. I had thought you two weren't on the best of terms. Why didn't you offer him Albus Dumbledore?"

"Dumbledore's not a student," Crabbe pouted.

Snape pressed his eyes shut, unable to bear the sight of the stupid lad. "Give me strength," he muttered, and forced his eyes open once again. "I suppose you did not notice any of the exchanges that passed between the Dark Lord and myself before we left?" Crabbe's blank expression was all the answer he needed to make. "I will tell you, then, Mister Crabbe. I lost honor in the Lord's eyes this evening because of your stupidity. Don't think I won't remember that - and reward it properly when the opportunity presents itself. I will also tell you this: if you expect to have any future in our world, you will need to get yourself into the Dark Lord's graces. To do so, you will have to fulfill the mission he assigned you. My suggestion to you is to forget about the Boy Who Lived and think about the alternatives I mentioned. Work. Accomplish what you have been assigned. Do that and you will have some success. Fail, and you had best concentrate hard in muggle studies. There won't be a place for you in magical Britain if you antagonize the Dark Lord. Goodbye, Mister Crabbe." The crack of apparation rang through the house as he departed.

Vincent turned and went to the kitchen to get something to eat. He still didn't understand why Snape was so upset. The burnt old bugger on the throne had seemed to like the suggestion to snag Potter for the Death Eaters. One thing was sure, it probably wasn't a suggestion he heard very often, and that had to count for something. The longer Vincent thought about it, the more the convinced himself that Snape was too uptight to be a proper rebel. Being a Deatheater was all about doing your own thing and saying to Hell with the rules. That wasn't how Vincent's dad put it, of course. The old man went on and on about duty and obligation. But the elder Crabbe had been doing the same thing for so long that he had grown old in the harness. He had forgotten how to cut loose and raise Hell. That's why Voldemort wanted young people for his army - they would have the spirit he wanted.

Vincent could hardly wait to tell Goyle about tonight. Gregory'd shit himself when he heard that Vincent had offered to bag the Boy Who Lived for Voldemort's service. Gregory may have lost his virginity first. But it was Vincent who had first met the Dark Lord. 'Let's see who gets farther on the basis of that,' Crabbe smirked. He made himself a sandwich and headed for the fireplace, grabbing some floo powder from the mantle. Time to start bragging.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Harry trudged along the hallway toward the Gryffindor common room dispiritedly. His last day among friends and fellow students before summer break had not really been much fun. Everyone was too busy packing to be able to pay him much attention. He, by contrast, had no packing to do, since he would be going nowhere, and as he drifted around the castle to say goodbyes, he only seemed to get in everyone else's way.

He approached the Fat Lady's portrait with some trepidation. The Lady seemed to get a kick out of making passwords difficult during the final days of each term. She had done the same for five years running, and today's last-day password was no exception.

Before he could even attempt the word, the Fat Lady herself sang out to him with a voice filled with delight. "It seems I shall be seeing quite a bit more of you over the next few weeks." She twisted and stretched, thrusting her ample bosom forward as she smiled.

"Umm... word gets around?" Harry replied uncertainly.

"The poses those poor headmasters had to hold for their official portraits are so stiff and uncomfortable," the Fat Lady said with genuine sympathy. "Those that are hung on Dumbledore's office wall come out to visit frequently. And who can blame them? In their frames, they have to stand there rigidly, trying to telegraph dignity... as though posture could somehow instill honor and scholarship in some future viewer. If that were possible, we'd hardly need professors, now, would we? Besides, the gentlemen enjoy my company." She fluttered her eyelashes and held her goblet like a fan over the lower portion of her face.

"I'm sure they do," Harry replied, hoping his House's guardian portrait would take that as a compliment. He paused to make sure the Fat Lady wasn't about to continue their conversation, then spoke the password. "Antidisestablishmentarianism," he said, and earned a smile from the Lady as the portrait swung back to admit him to his house's common room.

The Gryffindor common room was a comfortable place, and most students sorted into Gryffindor tended to make friends with each other fairly easily. So the common room was usually quite crowded. It was odd, and somewhat depressing, to find it nearly deserted. There were a pair of first years standing under the House banner, excitedly talking about their incipient journey on the Hogwarts Express; three second years playing their last game of Exploding Snap before having to leave - since leaving school would mean losing their playing partners for the summer; and one of the older students sitting near the fire, face buried in a book.

Harry flopped down on one of the comfortably soft armchairs and stayed slumped there, staring into space. He would have to wait to say goodbye to his best friends. Hermione was packing in the girls' section of the Tower, and Ron - who had waited until the last possible moment before starting to gather his things - was dashing about so distractedly, grabbing items from all over his room and throwing them in the general direction of his trunk, that he had sent Harry away to keep from crashing into him repeatedly. So Harry sat sulking, waiting - and totally helpless to escape when he saw Neville Longbottom descending the stairs.

Neville carried his trunk with one hand gripping the folding handle set into the side panel. The trunk itself was substantial, and Neville must have had clothes and books, at least, packed away inside. In order for Neville to carry it so easily, the trunk must have had a lightening charm cast upon it. Harry tried to recall who else might have been upstairs to cast the charm, and couldn't think of anyone. Neville must have mastered the spell himself. Good for him. Most students who worked with Longbottom knew that he had a great deal of magical talent. He became nervous and flustered easily, though, and because of that, he tended to make mistakes. And when someone with Neville's potential made mistakes, those mistakes frequently resulted in spectacular explosions.

In his other hand, Neville held his new toad-carrier, which incorporated many elements of a good terrarium, without a lot of loose items to rattle around when travelling. Sitting on a large rock at the center of the carrier was Trevor, Neville's habitually escaping toad. Perhaps, with Trevor confined to the carrier, Neville might have a more peaceful journey on the Hogwarts Express.

Harry wondered if Neville would even acknowledge his presence, after the summer-job fiasco. He hadn't long to wait to find out. Neville reached the bottom of the stairs, placed his trunk carefully on the floor, put the toad-carrier on top of it, and marched to a spot directly in front of Harry's armchair. "Potter," he said coldly.

Harry had worried that Longbottom would have this very reaction. He sat up straighter, met Neville's eye, and began, "Neville, I..."

"Don't," Longbottom interjected. He spoke quietly, but with such poise and self-assurance that Harry was immediately silenced. 'When did Neville become so mature?' Harry wondered.

"Professor Sprout has informed me of the arrangements for this summer's greenhouse care," Neville reported evenly, not breaking eye contact. "Congratulations."

"Look," Harry said in a placating tone. "Dumbledore..."

Neville stopped him again with the sheer determination in his voice. "However the decisions were made, everyone knows you wanted to stay here over the summer. Whatever arrangements were agreed on, I'm sure that factor was taken into consideration."

'Damn Dumbledore,' Harry thought miserably. 'Him and all his "It will all be my fault" nonsense. Everyone can see exactly what happened, and no one - especially not Neville - will care about the Headmaster taking the blame. It'll all be MY fault.' Which it actually was, he admitted to himself. "Look Neville, I'm sorry you have to go back to your grandmother's..."

It seemed as though this was to be a conversation in which Harry was not allowed to complete a single statement. Neville overrode him again, this time with a touch of anger. "I don't mind my grandmother. I don't really mind staying at her house again. She's practically Mother to me since what happened to my parents was so long ago. If you're going to apologize, that's not what you should be sorry for."

Harry was baffled. "Then what...?"

"I know every plant in those greenhouses, Potter," Neville snarled, raising a finger to point directly at Harry's face. "From the seedlings for the first years to the devil's snare for Defense class. From the hemlock to the foxglove. And even the restricted plants, Potter - which you are going to have to learn in order to get through the summer. Wolfsbane, mandrake, gillyweed... I know them all. And I know what condition they're in now." Unshed tears gleamed in his eyes. "And if you hurt any of them, Potter, I will hurt you. If you ruin anything... then, God help you." He turned to stalk away, leaving Harry helplessly gaping at the spot he had been.

Harry could think of only one way to save this situation - and, from the sound of it, possibly his own life. He stood up and practically shouted, "Neville, Help!"

Longbottom turned quickly and scanned the immediate area for dangers. Seeing none, he glared suspiciously at Harry.

"Neville, please. I didn't ask for your job, and I tried to turn it down when Dumbledore told me I would have to do it. He wouldn't let me, and I knew I was doomed. I need your help."

"What?" Neville sneered. "You want me to take polyjuice and stand in for you?"

"Something like that," Harry replied, and waited for Neville's curiosity to take over. Once Longbottom's sneer had become a questioning look, Harry continued. "I'll need advice - very specific advice - about each and every one of those plants. You're right - I have to learn. But the only way I'm going to be able to do it is to have you tell me what's important and what's not. I'll need to write - my hand hurts just thinking about it, but there's no other way. I'll write to tell you what I see and what I'm doing. You write back to tell me how I'm making an ass of myself, and what to do to prevent any of our plants from being damaged."

"There's always the fireplace," Neville suggested, and Harry felt a great surge of relief. If he could keep Neville on his side, not only would he make it through the summer, the next two years, at least, would be a lot more comfortable.

"Right. I'll floo you every... well, as often as you'd like, that is."

Neville smiled. It was a small, weak, rueful smile, but even that was an extreme change from the expression he had worn only moments previously. "Every day will be fine, Harry. We'll work out a time and all that. Just floo me as soon as Professor Sprout gives you the basic rundown of your duties. We'll go from there."

"Thanks, Neville."

"I'll be talking to you, Harry." Neville collected his trunk and toad-carrier and left the Tower on his way to meet the Hogwarts Express.

Once they could see that they were not going to be treated to a fight, the younger students gathered up their cards and wandered upstairs to get their own luggage. As soon as it seemed polite to stop pretending to read, the last of the others in the room left as well, with a brief wave toward Harry, who flopped back down into his armchair to watch the parade of departures.

When it seemed as though every other occupant of the Tower had already fled, Ron came trudging down the stairs, lugging his trunk - which had obviously not been treated with a lightening spell - and a broomstick. The heavy trunk threatened to overbalance him, making Ron take heavy steps that bounced the trunk on his knees as he descended. Each of the bounces made his broomstick swing toward his face, forcing him to jerk his head out of the way. Harry bit his cheek to keep from laughing out loud - while hanging on to his wand, ready to cast a swift Wingardium Leviosa, just in case Ron fell on the stairs.

The spell was unnecessary, though Ron did thump his nose with his broomstick while setting his possessions by the door. He turned toward Harry with a crooked grin. "O.K., mate. Guess I won't see you around the Burrow this time." He shrugged and shifted his weight nervously.

"I'll miss being there," Harry said sincerely. "But at least I don't have to go back to the Dursleys' at all."

"You might miss visiting my place," Ron laughed. "But Ginny's right furious. She's been practicing privacy spells all term, looking forward to this summer."

"Privacy spells?"

"You know," Ron said with a wiggle of his eyebrows. "Short-range silence, limited invisibility, re-direct attention, go unnoticed. That sort of thing. She thought that once you came to visit, she'd have a real chance to try 'em all out. She's been boiling since she heard you'd be here all summer."

"Ron..." Harry groaned.

"What's the matter," a feminine voice interrupted from the stairs. "Don't you like Ginny?"

Harry didn't answer. He simply watched Hermione walk down to the common room. Hermione had been rather funny-looking in first year, and had gone through various stages of awkwardness as she had grown. But by the end of fifth year, she was... Harry didn't have a word for it. Beautiful? No. Not extreme enough for real beauty. Pretty? No. Her nose was still too big, her face too plain. But she was as self-assured as she had always been, confident, positive, deliberate... and walking down the stairs, dead sexy. She had lightened her trunk, and carried the clumsy box as delicately as she might have carried a purse. Her cat, Crookshanks, wove its way around her feet as she walked, and the girl mirrored some of the easy grace of the cat in the way she moved. Harry watched in silence, happy that she was his friend, but a little disappointed too. Somehow, years ago, they had become friends in such a way that precluded any physical relationship from developing. And for years, he hadn't thought that mattered much. Now, though... "I like Ginny perfectly well, thank you," Harry replied with mock formality. "It's just that, especially after raising Fred and George, I don't think Mrs. Weasley would be fooled for a moment by limited invisibility or a misdirect-attention spell."

"And what's this?" Hermione placed the tip of her finger against Ron's nose, which was already showing the first signs of bruising.

Harry offered an explanation before Ron could think of a reasonable-sounding lie. "Oh, Ron just struck his nose with his broomstick."

Hermione stepped back and regarded Ron with a broad smile. As Ron blushed under the scrutiny, she murmured, "I knew you were glad to see me, but... Ron - you actually hit your nose? You'll have to show me that trick."

"I... uh.... 'll ... bbbe gladto," Ron's stuttering and mumbling only made Hermione's smile warmer. She turned back to Harry with a thoughtful expression. "You worry me, Potter. It sounds like you won't have a minute to yourself if this job is as hard as Neville says it is."

"He's going to help me with it - long distance. I'll floo him, and we'll write. If he doesn't get bored with me, I think I'll just about make it through the summer."

"That's what I mean," Hermione insisted. "There's more to life than just slaving away in some old school building. You need some time to enjoy your summer!"

Harry appealed to Ron. "Is this Hermione? Let's hold her here for an hour and see if the polyjuice wears off. Seriously, I never thought you'd tell me there's more to life than study."

Hermione flipped her hair back and raised her nose into the air in a cutting parody of some of the more fashion conscious - and less intelligent - girls in their class. "Even I can learn... given a good tutor." She glanced at Ron and Harry sighed, unnoticed by either of them. He hoped their romance could progress over the summer. It would be hard to start next year with both of them too wrapped up in each other to pay any attention to him.

--- --- ---

For most of his life it had been the human part of Remus Lupin that had slowed him down. Oh, he hated the Wolf, hated the savagery and nearly mindless ferocity of his animal form. But the Wolf was as quick and sure as Remus' human side was thoughtful and calculating.

When he had been a student at Hogwarts, Remus had been shy and retiring - and for good reason. Lycanthropy was an illegal condition, and had he been discovered by government officials in Wolf form, he would have been killed. He had to admit that most officials in government service, including most aurors, would have been unable to effectively execute a werewolf during a full moon night. But once he had been discovered, it would have been only a matter of time before he was arrested and summarily destroyed. In his youth, it had paid to be closed-mouthed about his personal life.

But he had met friends - good friends who had supported him in the best ways they could. As a human, a young man, and a student, he had studied the three who would become his closest friends for months before starting to feel comfortable with them. He tested them in small ways, talking about magical creatures and weighing their responses carefully to try to detect the common prejudices that could be so dangerous to him. The Wolf had sniffed once and had known that these three would not betray his vulpine nature to the authorities. He had known with a certainty that his human mind could never accept that he would be tied to these three until death or some similar catastrophe separated them. The Wolf had, of course, been right.

Not that there weren't bad times and bad things that happened between the four who became known as the Marauders. Sirius Black's stupid, ugly idea of a joke nearly exposed Remus. If the prank had been completed, Lupin in animal form would certainly have killed Severus Snape. The death would have been unmistakably the work of a werewolf. The most minimally intelligent detective would have discovered the identity of the perpetrator within days, if not hours. Remus would have been executed, and Black would have been responsible for two deaths.

But by that time, it was too late for Remus to turn his back on even that callous a friend. By that time, the Marauders had become, for good or ill, Lupin's pack.

As a human, a young man, and a student, Remus tried to analyze the dynamics of the Marauders' relationships. The Wolf could smell the truth, and knew. Lupin's human mind concentrated on the various attributes of each of the friends: Sirius, physically the strongest; Peter, the most devious; and himself, by far the most dangerous. His logical mind thought about James' sociability, Sirius' cruel humor, and Peter's self-depreciation. The Wolf felt the pack dynamic deep in himself, and was certain. The others could not understand - they had no pack instincts to guide them. But they fell into the proper pattern so perfectly, that Lupin's wolf self couldn't mistake the hierarchy that would govern their relationships for the rest of their lives. Peter was an Omega, barely hanging on to his position in the pack. He would be the most likely to do something taboo, to violate the pack ethos. That ethos would allow James to be insulting and manipulative and tolerated Sirius being cruel and thoughtless. But it demanded a different kind of loyalty from each pack member. And part of that demand placed Peter on the bottom rung of their ladder. Peter may have thought of himself as more perceptive and more politically aware than the others. He displayed feelings of being put upon and misunderstood by his friends. There was, in short, a completely human explanation for all of Peter's behavior, and for the behavior of his friends in regard to him. The Wolf simply understood - that was how an Omega was.

Remus himself was a gamma. If there had been more than four Marauders, the added numbers would all have been gammas. His position represented the body of the pack, the solid members who were not leaders nor incipient outcasts. He took some abuse from Sirius and James because that was his place. They were leaders. He was not. His wolf self understood without question. His human soul felt abused and mistreated, but the deeply underlying instincts of his animal nature kept him in the pack, and loyal to his packmates, whatever their human failings.

Sirius was, for all his bluster and all his physical power, beta. Remus could see that Sirius sometimes behaved like a man in love with James. If asked, he would have declared his respect for and loyalty to James. He deferred to James in many ways, allowed James to choose their activities and make their plans. The Wolf approved of this wholeheartedly - that was how a beta should be. Sirius was James' strong right arm. He was the pack's protector, as well as the pack's bully. And though many people did not understand why Sirius did not date, did not attend social functions, and did not try to make himself more presentable as a polite young man, the Wolf knew without question. Sirius would not waste his time on dating, social appearances, or polite presentation. Because Sirius would not take a mate. Only one of their pack would mate. Only one would bear offspring. The humans thought such a notion was nonsense. The Wolf would be proven correct.

James was their alpha. And just as the Wolf knew without a doubt that James was the one, women seemed to know as well. Every woman who expressed interest in James - and there were many - also had a good deal to say about his faults and shortcomings. He was not 'nice.' In fact, he was crass and rude and demanding and very, very selfish. He was not 'genteel.' In fact, he was spoiled, wasteful, arrogant and frequently downright destructive. He was not 'proper.' In fact, he was disrespectful, rebellious, irresponsible and a developing wastrel. In short, he was totally irresistible to young women. As the Wolf could have told them, James was an alpha, and every woman who felt herself to be an alpha female wanted to be his bitch.

Lily was a perfect example. Too good for James Potter by any human standards, the Wolf could smell the correctness of the match almost from the moment they first dated. People were shocked by the match. They were scandalized. They said it couldn't last. They weren't trusting their noses. Lily and James' connection was deep - as deep as their genes. As the alpha pair, they led the pack, as much as Lily would have preferred to allow the rest of the Mauraders to go their separate ways after school. How could they have? Lily and James were to have a cub. Healthy young marrieds usually did - but even more importantly, alphas were obligated to do so. Lily and James could not feel this obligation in the way wolves could. They talked about family planning, and waiting to have children until after they had travelled the world, and had a chance to enjoy each other's company without a child for a time. The Wolf ignored their prattling. Inevitably, a cub was produced quickly. So Remus became the pack elder to an alpha son. Harry may or may not lead his own pack some day, but to Remus, he was closer than a blood relative from before the day he was born. It wasn't a matter of liking the child, or finding interesting qualities in him - those were human concerns, originating far too high up in the brain to have a full visceral impact. The Wolf smelled the boy, knew he was the alpha's offspring, and became the cub's protector. For Remus, it was automatic, deep and permanent. He frequently wondered how human families ever survived at all, with their relatively superficial bindings of love and mutual concern.

But the pack changed. They hadn't even been out of school very long when the disaster struck, killing James and Lily, jailing Sirius, and sending Peter into hiding. The pack remained, because the cub remained. Harry lived, and was in protective care. He would go to Hogwarts himself once he turned the proper age. Sirius was still alive, though caged - a horrible fate to the Wolf's sensibility. God only knew what had happened to Peter. Dead? Remus saw the evidence. He couldn't argue with it. The Wolf didn't believe it. Still, if Peter were alive, he was gone to ground somewhere unknown, and the rest of the pack would - perforce - be staying in place.

Remus left magical Britain behind. He took himself to London, and for twelve long, lonely years, he lived as a muggle.

He saw movies. He danced in clubs. He got drunk in bars, and sometimes got into fights in them. He rode a motorcycle for a while. Patriotism drove him to buy a Triumph, though the machine vibrated horribly if he drove it faster than about seventy-five kph. It also visited the shop about once per month. After a few repeats of this, he tried to time his shop visits to coincide with the full moon, so the bike would be stranded at the garage when he needed it the least. He gave the bike up and bought a car after a few years. After shopping for something English, he bought a Toyota, which was surprisingly reliable. Patriot or not, he couldn't afford a Jaguar, and his long frame simply did not fit into a Morris. He learned how to be a good city dweller. He didn't bother his neighbors, and while he didn't make many friends, he had no major conflicts, either. He stayed out of jail, kept himself alive by doing odd jobs, mostly as a laborer, and pined for his pack and his magical world. After twelve years, a note from Albus Dumbledore summoned him back to the world he had known, and the school he had loved. He jumped at the chance.

In the meantime, he had learned how utterly stupid the so-called government of magical Britain actually was. They aggressively searched for unauthorized spells, unauthorized underage magic, and inadvertent exposure of muggles to magical phenomena. They sent teams of obliviators out to cover over the most trivial of magical incidents. But for over a decade, he had been a fully active werewolf of London. Had he lived the same life in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley, he would have been captured at the first full moon. Instead, he ran rampages throughout the London area for years. The Ministry of Magic didn't even bother to check into the reports of his escapades, let alone look for him. It was ridiculous. And they were pathetic.

He had killed people while living in London. He had known that he would, that he would be unable to avoid it. Instead of trying to create some kind of Shrieking Shack for himself, which would hardly have been effective without someone to help him, he had done almost the exact opposite. He chose his victims carefully. He would take the entire month between changes to select the worst individual he could find. He would make sure that when the transformation came over him, that he was within striking range of the target, and that he had pounded the identity of that person into his brain in every way possible - thought, word, visualization... and scent. In one year, he had rid London of a dozen violent criminals. The next year, he chose bastards of a different type. But overall, his twelve years of lycanthropy in the English capital had been something of which he was very proud. He recalled a line from a movie which he had seen in a rather crowded theatre. The line was intended to be slightly funny in its context, but Remus had laughed so long and hard that other theatre patrons had thrown their popcorn at him. He paraphrased it to himself again: "Yes, I killed people... but they were all bad."

Now, Remus walked the streets of the city he had called home for so long with a completely different attitude, and everyone on the street could tell it. The change wasn't obvious in his movements. He didn't strut or dance about. He didn't shout or sing, didn't mug exaggerated expressions at passersby. But people couldn't help but look at him, some with curiosity, some with fear. Swaggering young men glared challenges at him, and were abashed when he disdained them, remaining aloof from their petty territoriality. And women glanced at him, did double takes to look back at him, and in some cases, openly stared at him. He acknowledged some of these with a look, sometimes a smile. There was no need to rush to respond to any of them. He would be attracting such attention from now on. He had become alpha.

When Sirius had fallen through the portal in the basement of the Ministry of Magic, Remus had only thought of how Harry must feel, what Harry must be thinking, how the loss would affect Harry. The Wolf understood that. It was not wise to traumatize a cub unnecessarily. But the Wolf was also trying to tell Remus something else - something that he did not allow himself to hear for months. The alpha had died long ago. Sirius had never taken the alpha position, Remus never knew why. But there was a very powerful reason for that: Sirius had suffered under the dementors. Most people would have become incurably insane from the abuse he had endured while a prisoner of Azkaban. In a way, while others of his age had been maturing, Sirius had regressed a bit under the intense mental pressure the dementors had brought to bear. He had found his greatest psychic defense lay in constantly reinforcing his personality by remembering exactly who he had been in school, combating the dementors' nightmares by being exactly who he had been during the happiest time of his life. Among the strongest memories he had of that time were those of James. So he thought of himself as a Marauder, and obsessed over every memory he could recover of his time with James. This was what had kept him from assuming the role of pack leader. Maybe there was more, as well. Maybe Sirius lacked something within himself that was necessary for leading a pack. But Remus could feel the fact in his Wolf self, that Sirius never ascended to alpha. This was not something Remus thought about or felt emotionally - it was deep in the scent, driven by profound instinct. Especially after the escape from Azkaban, Lupin had waited for Black to take over, to grow up, to lead. Remus would have gladly followed. But Sirius remained only the beta - though higher in rank than Remus, not the pack leader - until he died. Peter had committed his act of betrayal and had been cast out. Given a chance, Remus would have killed the rat. Only Harry remained to keep the pack alive. But that was enough. There was a cub to ensure the future. And Remus, unlike Sirius, did possess the qualities required of a pack leader. He had a different role to perform, now, a different niche to fill. His life would be different - he would be different - because the pack dynamic demanded he be different. He was the alpha.

--- --- ---

Under cover of darkness, Severus Snape apparated to a patch of wildwood, where gorse and bramble tore at his robes and loose soil underfoot threatened to pitch him down into a worse thicket below. He had always hated this entrance, but given the wards he already knew to be protecting the home he wished to enter - and the even stricter safeguards that may well have been placed around it recently - he had judged this path the safest.

Gripping a filthy shrub, he pressed his fingers to the bark on its trunk. He found the correct pattern fairly quickly, though it cost him several irritating, itchy wounds inflicted by the thorns on the bush's branches. Activating the spell that had been set into the plant, Severus let go and stepped back just in time to avoid being knocked over as a trap door rose silently from the ground, exposing a long, dark stairwell leading deep into the earth. The passageway was filled with webs and dust. Severus sighed. He was already covered in dust and soil. Making his entrance covered with cobwebs as well would probably be appropriate, if not particularly comfortable. He raised his wand, murmured "Lumos!" and descended the stairs in a pool of bright, cold light emanating from his wand tip, even as the trap door automatically closed behind him.

It was a long walk through the stone-lined corridor beneath the earth, about fifteen minutes of brisk striding to reach the house from the portal through which he had entered. On the way, Severus tried to think of more compelling arguments or more enticing ways to state his case, but nothing new occurred to him. The success of his appeal hinged on the opinion of a single person, and whether she would consider his advice or dismiss him out of hand depended on nothing more than her whim, which was increasingly untrustworthy under the stress of the past few weeks.

Severus reached a heavy wooden door at the corridor's end, extinguished his wand's light, and pressed the wood in a precise pattern. The door swung wide and Snape entered a richly appointed library, elegantly wood paneled, home to hundreds of exquisitely-bound books. The library was only dimly lit by a few lamps out of sight in another part of the room hidden behind the massive ceiling-height bookcases to either side of Severus' entrance. The room had a raised area immediately in front of the intricately inlaid wooden floor on which Snape stood. It was reached by climbing three broad wooden steps, which were bordered by beautifully curved handrails, cut in an understated curved-top pattern. Standing at the top of this miniature staircase, in full evening dress, one finger delicately resting on the rail, was the lady of the house, Narcissa Malfoy.

"Severus," she breathed throatily. "You startled me."

Snape regarded the woman with disappointment and sadness. So many years of lying incessantly had rendered her incapable of making a single, simple honest statement. She had been waiting for him, that much was obvious from her place and her posture. Narcissa never spent any time in the library if she could be anywhere else, and she never took the trouble to array herself to be appreciated unless someone was going to be able to see her. She had probably been aware of his approach for several minutes - perhaps even from the time he had apparated onto her husband's property. Furthermore, she was quite aware of what he did for Voldemort - and for Dumbledore. She knew he was an expert of espionage and counter-espionage. So she had to know that he was very aware that she had been waiting for him. Under different circumstances, she would doubtless have made up a more convincing lie. But now, she just didn't care. Any lie would do. No matter how transparent, or how useless, anything was preferable to the truth.

"Narcissa," Snape said with a semi-formal abbreviated bow. "How are you?"

Narcissa turned one corner of her mouth upward, but no smile reached her eyes. She moved slightly, only a twist of her shoulders and a tilt of her hips, but she made those movements with the liquid grace that had made her the object of attention of most of the boys in school. Combined with her cold look, the move was almost a parody of seductiveness. Severus knew her well enough to realize that this was intended as a harsh comment upon her marriage, and her life for the past decade and a half. Her voice dripped with scorn. "My husband is in jail, my son is a spoiled brat, I don't own any of the things that have been mine to use because of my marriage these past fifteen years, and I learned today that I am to be under investigation for treasonous activities. How should I be?"

Unswayed by the sarcasm, Severus asked, "Do you know why I am here?"

This time, Narcissa's half-smile became an ugly sneer. "On behalf of the Deatheathers, to kill me and keep me from testifying against Lucius. Or on behalf of Dumbledore, to kill me and keep me from carrying on Lucius' work?"

"That is not humorous," Snape intoned coldly. "There are few people left in this world for whom I care. The only two that are salient to this discussion are Draco... and you."

"Oh, Severus," Narcissa sighed with melodramatic excess. "You've come to sweep me off my feet. How gallant!"

"I have come to get your feet moving again," Snape scolded. "You've dawdled far too long. Britain is not a good place for you to be right now."

"Well, good for me, then," Narcissa replied archly. "Since I'm not in Britain." Snape raised an eyebrow skeptically. Narcissa explained in a snarl that shocked the man. "Britain is a muggle concept. And a poorly-executed one, at that. It's not a country - it's not even a very 'United' kingdom. The Irish Republican Army and the Scottish Independence Movement fight the English Torries while the Welshmen whine that they're being downtrodden...."

"I had no idea you were interested in muggle politics," Severus said with amazement as she took a breath.

With heavy sarcasm, she moaned, "I'm not! Lucius thought that he could conquer the world, and he wanted to know who would be waiting to fight him when he went out to claim it. So it was 'Thatcher this' and 'America that' for years. It makes for a very depressing dinner table, I can assure you. 'Voldemort's plan, Lucius' action,' over and over again. 'Conquer the wizarding world, and the muggles will fall,' repeated until he had convinced himself. He always thought it would be one of the world superpowers that would be his biggest challenge." She quieted, and her eyes focused somewhere far away. "Isn't it a great surprise, then, that his greatest nemesis would turn out to be Cornelius Fudge?"

Severus spoke with a stern warning tone. "It would not do to underestimate the governments of either the wizarding or the muggle versions of the United Kingdom - singly or in concert. Fudge has been in contact with the muggle Prime Minister for at least three years."

"For all the good they can do," Narcissa sneered, then seemed to grow tired of the effort sarcasm demanded. Her shoulders slumped, and she leaned on the stair rail. "It will be easy for them to convict Lucius, and they will then take the easiest way to continue. I'll be hounded until they find something to take away from me. Lucius' estate, first, of course."

"Which is why you need to collect as much of your own fortune as possible before they move on to investigating your assets," Severus pleaded. This would be the point on which his appeal rested. If Narcissa would only choose humility...

Severus' heart sank as Narcissa pulled herself up to her full height and assumed her most aristocratic demeanor. "Take my family's money and run, is it?" she demanded coldly.

To Severus' eye, Narcissa was one of a minority among women - those who looked better after childbirth than they had before. In her long, elegant gown, as low-cut and split-sided as one a teenager might choose, Narcissa looked full, lush and womanly. When she had been the envy of all the schoolgirls, her critics had called her a 'stick with tits.' Now with mature curves, her always-cold beauty was expressed in a somewhat softer mode. With the weathering from hard experience she now showed in her face, she appeared to Severus to be well on her way to becoming a mighty matriarch. And she might well have had the chance to develop into one, had Lucius been successful. She had staked quite a bit on her husband's plans, and she had spent unhappy years staying with him, hoping those schemes would produce results. They had, instead, failed - probably beyond hope of recovery. As it was, there was nothing for her in England, no chance for her unless she left. Snape knew he would have to strike her hard to make her understand. "You took your husband's money and stayed up until now. It's time for a change of strategy. You know that. It will take guts to actually do that."

Narcissa dropped her aristocratic pose. She was tired and frightened. "And where will I go?" she asked dully. "Where on Earth will Narcissa Malfoy not be recognized - and extradited when Corny Fudge gets around to asking for me? Muggle World? What would I do? 'Pardon me Bank Manager, but I have some Galleons I would like to exchange...' Face it, Severus. I couldn't even get started. Wizarding World? I'd be waiting for the aurors all day and all night."

Severus took on his most aloof lecturing manner. He could not afford to allow Narcissa to see the sympathy he felt for her. "I have spoken to some contacts. Beauxbatons would be willing to accept Draco as a transfer student. Same year, same credits, same time until graduation. No questions asked, no contacting Hogwarts, no transcripts or references required. And they would actually prefer it if he transferred as Draco Black. There will be no need to mention the difficulties of the Malfoys. You will be the Blacks, come to la belle France, attracted by the fashion and design of which the stolid English have no concept. You will need your own fortune to live on, and you will have to pay for Draco's schooling. But there will be no transfer fees, no enrollment fee. It was the most I could do."

Narcissa looked alarmingly like a drowning woman being thrown a rope. Much of the composure she had displayed was molded from fatalism - having given up hope, she was not about to look worried. But now, there was a frantic gleam in her eyes. "Where would I ... how do I even look for... what do I ..."

Severus stepped forward quickly to within arms' reach and held out a card. "This is your contact information. You could arrive as much as a week from now, but I would urge you to hurry. If you need to contact your bank, or make other arrangements - especially any legal changes that will allow you to use Narcissa Black as your name for all transactions - I would suggest you do it tomorrow morning. Pack lightly. Travel anonymously. Tell no one. Simply disappear."

Narcissa took the card and reached toward Severus, who recoiled from the proferred touch. Narcissa laughed under her breath. Severus had always hated to be touched, even by a beautiful woman. How did someone like that ever make love? She shook her head and softly said, "Thank you. I will do this. Draco will protest, but he will go. I will be taking the money, so... he will go. I... I would like to do something for you, someday. I don't know what you want, what you need. But I am in your debt. I... appreciate this... Oh, thank you, Severus." She seemed to be on the edge of tears.

Snape half-bowed again. "May I apparate from here, or will I be torn to shreds by your wards?"

"Not mine," Narcissa said thoughtfully. "But Lucius did some work here during his last few weeks of… freedom. I think you had better take the tunnel out. I'm sorry, Severus."

"There is no need to be sorry if you do as I have suggested," Snape pronounced. "Pack now. Business tomorrow. Gone by tomorrow night." He turned and disappeared into the subterranean passage.

--- --- ---

Severus Snape apparated to the point closest to Hogwarts' entrance that could be accessed by magical transportation. Because of the powerful wards surrounding the building and its grounds, the closest location to which one could apparate was far down a long grass slope from the building itself. The apparation point gave the arriving wizard a beautiful view of the castle, the foreshortened perspective making the towers seem taller and the battlements more crenelated, but when one was tired and impatient to be back inside and comfortably at work once again, the view was poor solace for the long climb ahead.

But Snape was used to the inconveniences of apparating to and from the Hogwarts area. Due to his involvement with Voldemort, he apparated more often than any other Hogwarts staff member during the school term. And since he tended to stay at the castle during the summers, while the other staff members left for their vacations, Snape had to deal with the magical restrictions year-round, and never go to enjoy the free and nearly instantaneous magical transportation that many other wizards took for granted.

In some ways, Severus had to admit that this was a good thing. It had saved him from punishment many times. When he was summoned to a meeting with the Dark Lord, he would frequently delay his departure long enough to grab a potion, or some ingredient for one. Often, he would inform Dumbledore of the summons, so that if he were to return injured, medical care could be arranged. And if he did not return, there would be someone who had a clue as to what had happened to him. Most loyal Death Eaters were supposed to drop everything and respond to a summons immediately by apparating to the designated meeting place. Voldemort expected to be able to call for his followers, and begin addressing them without delay, confident that his minions would hear him because they had appeared instantly upon feeling the pain of the summons. This was intended to be practice for the Death Eaters' use as shock troops in the next war Voldemort was planning. In case of an unforeseen opportunity or unexpected move against him by his enemies, the Dark Lord would summon his troops, and send them immediately out to fight. He would prefer to gather his Death Eaters in advance and send them out fully informed of their objectives. But the instant summons would prove very useful in an emergency. Most Death Eaters who delayed - even to pull a robe on or spell themselves dry from the bath - were punished for tardiness. The punishments could range from being assigned unpleasant jobs to suffering painful tortures, so there were few late arrivals in response to a summons.

The exception was Snape.

The Dark Lord knew very well that Severus had to make a long walk out of the castle and across the grounds before he had any chance of apparating. So Snape tended to appear at the back of the crowd once all the other Death Eaters had gathered. This had caused many of the newer recruits to mark him as 'special.' Which, to them, meant 'watch out for this one - he's especially dangerous.' But it had earned him nothing but contempt from the highest-ranking Death Eaters, Lucius Malfoy specifically.

The self-styled 'right hand man of the Dark Lord' was extremely scornful of the special leniency afforded the potions master, and wasted no opportunity to disparage Snape because of it. Severus had bided his time, taking the abuse without response for one reason in particular: Lucius had referred to himself as the Dark Lord's Second-in-Command for years. But Voldemort himself had never confirmed nor denied that assertion. Malfoy was often detailed to pass his Lord's orders on to other Death Eaters. But while Lucius felt this made him the Death Eaters' Field Commander, Severus saw the job more as that of a 'messenger boy.' Lucius had seemed to believe that once the Dark Lord had conquered the world, it would be Malfoy's job to run it. Severus believed that if Tom Riddle were ever victorious, there would be no ruler other than Voldemort. Being Second-in-Command to such a megalomanic who had succeeded in becoming absolute ruler would be nearly meaningless. There would be Voldemort, exalted, and everyone else, subjugated. And no significant rank or distinction in between.

Whether or not Malfoy had been correct in his hopes and dreams seemed rather unimportant, now, however. He was in jail, awaiting trial on a plethora of charges, at least two of which - treason and murder - were for capital crimes. And that brought up a problem, the discussion of which the Ministry of Magic had tried to prevent since the last of Voldemort's wars. Much to the consternation of MInistry officials, the problem had been discussed extensively and publicly since the arrests of Malfoy and several other followers of Voldemort. The problem was extremely indelicate, which lent a certain excitement to talking about it. The problem was this: it is extremely difficult to sentence a wizard to death - because there are so many magical ways to thwart the process of execution.

The traditional form of execution in wizarding England was beheading. Even when dealing with an average-powered magic user, problems immediately arise when sentence is to be carried out. First, the condemned must be kept on the gallows for a full hour, with nothing to drink, so that any dosage of polyjuice might wear off. Then, the presiding officials must beware of illusion. A powerful illusionist could make it appear that he had put his head on the block, when actually he had tucked his chin hard into his own chest and hidden it beneath his glamour. When the axe fell, there would be illusory blood. And the best illusionists could even give their phantom head the semblance of enough weight so that the headman could lift it up to display to the crowd without catching on to the trick. After that, it would be simple. The illusionist would cast invisibility on his own head, and wait for his body to be turned back over to his family for burial. Execution thwarted. Illusionists - especially of that level of skill - were rare, and it was not very likely that one would actually pull off the 'phantom head' trick. But it was the possibility that drove the Ministry mad with frustration.

There was an even more practical plan that, according to Professor McGonagall, had been quite popular during the fourteenth century. The condemned would transfigure some foreign object - usually a pumpkin - into a reasonable semblance of his own head. Then... and this was the truly difficult part... the caster would transfigure himself into a genuinely headless person. His brain would have to reside within his chest cavity, and there would have to be some allowance made for breathing. There were many suggestions regarding solutions to that problem, any one of which sounded quite unpleasant to Snape. When the transfigured pumpkin was cloven from the shoulders to which it had been attached, a very realistic beheading would satisfy the observers. When the body was cast away, the now-headless transfigurer had the choice of remaining headless, and thereby blind and deaf, or of trying to re-transfigure himself back into his old shape. In Professor McGonagall's story, it was this step that actually killed most of those who attempted the ruse.

If beheading was ruled out as a viable execution method, there were few useful choices left. Hanging was hopeless. A well-placed wingardium leviosa cast upon the condemned man's boots would keep him floating safely all day once the trap was pulled beneath his feet. Burning was quite a joke to anyone who knew the spells to keep himself safe from heat (and from actually catching fire) while standing in the midst of flames. And the wizarding world had never adopted the use of technological methods such as the gun, which a firing squad might use, or the electric chair.

Many people had suggestions for alternative methods, some of which were suggested loudly and publicly in places were people enjoyed alcohol. Avada Kadavra led the list, even though the Ministry balked at the legal implications of using an Unforgivable curse to punish someone for using an Unforgivable curse. The next most popular suggestion had been to allow ravenous ants to devour the condemned. This plan had been banned by law due to the lobbying efforts of a large group of kind-hearted English wizards, who felt that it would be cruel to starve the ants to insure they reached the proper level of ravenousness.

None of these arguments reached the real secret dread of the Ministry, though. Their real fear had to do with what happened to a wizard after a successful execution. Especially in the case of violent death, it was comparatively easy for a wizard to become a ghost. The bustling spectral population of Hogwarts itself lent credence to that belief. Muggles were said to assume ghostly form on occasion, but most often, those shades could, at best, deliver vague impressions of their presence. Sometimes, they could only make themselves noticed to especially sensitive people who were watching for them in the first place. A chill in the air, a curtain blowing without wind, some small sound, or even a distinctive smell were among the catalog of muggle ghosts' vocabulary when trying to communicate with the living. By contrast, the ghosts of Hogwarts carried on very understandable conversations, gave advice, an even - in the case of Professor Binns - taught regular classes to the living. The Ministry had a genuine fear of propagandizing ghosts of executed Death Eaters.

Someone who was charismatic and somewhat dashing looking in life - and Severus had to admit that Lucius was such a person - would make a particularly effective public relations ghost. The spectre could preach support for Voldemort - or any other despot like him - without the fear of reprisal that a living man had to consider. Worse, they could do the same for hundreds of years. Many of Hogwarts' ghosts were centuries old and showing no signs of fading away any time soon.

But the approach the Ministry was taking toward the latest group of arrested Death Eaters circumvented both the 'unkillable wizard' and the 'returning ghost' problems very neatly. The crimes that Lucius and the others were accused of had what were referred to as Special Circumstances. In the cases of murder, this generally referred to torture. These Special Circumstances enabled the Ministry to ask for - not just the death penalty - but total eradication of each convicted criminal. The Dementor's Kiss would be applied to those convicted of Special Circumstance capital crimes. A dementor could destroy an individual so completely, literally consuming the condemned's soul, that there would be no chance for a ghost of that person to ever manifest itself. There were many loyal, law-abiding wizards and witches who hated the dementors and refused to countenance their use. There were some who actively campaigned against their being used even as prison guards, although they were the most effective guards in history. But if the Ministry had its way, any organized protests would come too late to save any of the souls of prisoners currently awaiting trial. Cornelius Fudge was already pushing for Lucius Malfoy to be the first to be kissed by the dementors, and the trial wouldn't even begin for several more weeks, at least.

Severus shook his head, disappointed in himself at the sentimental turn his thoughts had taken. He would never offer an excuse for such weakness in himself, but he believed he could pinpoint a reason. This had been a particularly long and stressful night. The fatalistically resigned Narcissa, suddenly desperate once she had seen a glimmer of hope; Lord Voldemort, in full recruitment mode; and the barely sapient Vincent Crabbe, hardly a jewel in Slytherin House's crown at any time, and particularly stupid tonight - together they had drained whatever energy he had retained after a full day's work in Hogwarts' potions dungeon. Well, those people in addition to having to apparate five times, covering most of Great Britain in giant leaps. He hated apparating at the best of times, and multiple apparations were worse. At least he hadn't had to use a portkey. If there had been portkeys involved, this already-stressful evening would not have been worth the effort. If there were ever a night during which he was expected to use five portkeys, he might well apparate himself to America and live as a muggle.

Severus' long meditation had helped him ignore much of the steep climb, and he found himself at the front entrance to the castle more than ready to descend to his quarters and repair some of the damage that had been done to his robes by the hideous brambles outside of Malfoy's tunnel entrance. Once downstairs, he fully expected to be able to reapply himself to working, even without rest. The cool atmosphere of the dungeons soothed him, and his love of potions made it possible to renew himself with work. He turned toward the downward stairs and was interrupted by the unfocused sounding mumblings of an old wizard. Snape wasn't fooled. Albus Dumbledore may have mastered the art of speaking like a homeless muggle, but the last word to describe him was 'unfocused.'

"Ah. Ummm... Severus. How good that you happened by."

Snape sighed in exasperation, but slowly turned to face the Headmaster. 'Worse than Narcissa,' he thought, though he said nothing. 'You know he's lying because you can hear his voice.' Like Narcissa this very evening, it was obvious the old man had been waiting for Severus. But, just like Narcissa, he was constitutionally unable to utter such a simple truth. What was particularly sad was that this old liar was Britain's... and ultimately, the world's... greatest defense against Voldemort - and anyone who, like Voldemort, would enslave and destroy rather than nurture and build. Severus raised an eyebrow and waited for the Headmaster to continue.

"I need to discuss... umm... some things. Things that are better spoken of... ahhh... out of public earshot."

"Would you accompany me to the dungeons, then?" Snape asked politely, trying to steer their footsteps in the direction he wished to go, even if he knew he would not be able to so steer the coming discussion. He had never been able to effectively redirect a conversation with Dumbledore to his own purposes.

"If you could, Severus... It would be... better... if we were to go to my offices."

Snape nodded once, curtly, and followed as the Headmaster strode off toward his private staircase at a very respectable pace, not bothering to use the old man's limping stride he usually employed when he knew he was being observed. Severus was very aware that Albus was much more physically fit than he usually let on. The pose of aged frailty was yet another of the Headmaster's many habitual lies.

Severus scowled sourly. In the years since he had entered Lord Voldemort's service, he had grown intellectually and emotionally. He had come to see the futility of the 'Death Eater' cause, and the complete inappropriateness of Tom Riddle as absolute ruler of anything - the world, Britain, even Hogsmeade. Old Tom 'I am Lord' Voldemort was insane, impractical - and worst of all, had no plan beyond seizing power. His followers all thought they knew his plan. The disproof of that could be effected simply by asking any two of them, separately, what the plan was. One Deatheater would swear the plan was to 'Kill the Muggles.' Another would insist that muggles were to be enslaved. Yet a third would declaim that before even considering muggles, all mudbloods were to be exterminated. Still another believed that it was squibs who were to be destroyed first. The Dark Lord himself simply wanted to be the Dark Lord OF something. The world, if possible; the British Isles if that were as much as his forces could dominate - Hogsmeade if he could conquer nothing else. Once in power, he was likely to have a very impressive throne room... but so far as managing resources, disposing of waste, generating energy, and encouraging commerce, the Lord was more in the dark than any muggle leader of the day.

So Severus had grown, and had seen these things, and had made a desperate decision. He had joined the opposition. And not just any opposition, but the most diametrically opposite opposition that he could find. The opposition led by Voldemort's greatest enemy, Albus Dumbledore, who held within his webs of magical protection his secret weapon, Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived.

Severus had to swallow a lot of his own pride to even consider James Potter's son a potential ally - or even a potential tool. James had tormented Severus in school, and his thuggish friend, Black, had nearly gotten Snape killed. But though he was an undeservedly famous, spoiled brat, Potter did seem to have a positive genius for getting the better of Lord Voldemort. Not only had the boy survived Voldemort's killing curse as a baby, he had thwarted the Dark Lord at least five times in five years. So Severus had finally come to accept the use of the boy as a tool. But the man who wielded that tool? Lying, manipulative Dumbledore? Snape had become less and less sure of his loyalty to that man and his cause as the years had passed. Besides, Snape had joined the Death Eaters in order to follow a vision of a better world, a world based on structure and discipline, in which those who were intelligent, creative and driven would be rewarded commensurately with their intelligence, creativity and drive. Dumbledore, for all his anti-Voldemort efforts, seemed to be bent on making a world safe for mediocrity, in which the average was praised, the ordinary was exemplified, the normal enshrined as the goal to which to aspire. Too late, years into his double agency, spying on Dumbledore for Voldemort and on Voldemort for Dumbledore, Snape realized that he wanted neither of those men's dreams to come true. 'If there were only another alternative,' he mused. 'Another leader, as determined as Riddle, as devious as Dumbledore, as powerful as...' Who? Who could be the exemplar of power that could check Voldemort's excesses and discipline Dumbledore's laxity? He climbed the stairs behind the Headmaster, listening to the grinding as the wall shut behind him and the stair disappeared into the column once again.

"Severus, I have a problem with... security... that will need to be dealt with all this summer, until the next school term."

"Headmaster," Severus said seriously. "The reason that I am at the castle all summer instead of off vacationing with the rest of the staff is that I have far too much work to do as it is to be able to take even the most minimal of breaks. In fact, after the Gryffindor fiascoes of this past term, I have so much repair to do..."

Dumbledore cut off Snape's protests with a rare direct look and straightforward speech. His vaporous demeanor disappeared altogether, and he wasted no time in cutting directly to his own strongest hold over the potions master. "Severus. The reason you are not summering on the beach at Majorca with Trelawney is that you cannot expose your left arm to public scrutiny. If Voldemort's dark mark is seen, people will know that you have been associated with the Death Eaters. The reason that you spend precious little time outside of Hogwarts' wards is that outside of them you would be even more completely at the mercy of Voldemort's summonses than you already are. I appreciate your working to make your classes more effective, but seriously... if there were repairs to do, the house elves..."

This time, it was Dumbledore's turn to be cut off. Snape may serve two masters in a political sense, but neither of those two powerful wizards could begin to perform as brilliantly as Snape in the field of potion brewing. In that light, Snape was the acknowledged authority on all things potion related, and Dumbledore had just tread upon the wrong floorboard when he suggested house elves be employed in the potions dungeon. Snape's voice radiated cold as he flatly stated, "No house elf who has ever lived could return the dungeon's burners to their proper operating parameters after Neville Longbottom has blown up his year's supply of cauldrons over them. I can. And that is only one of the many repairs that I suggest you allow me to get on with before next year's crop of bunglers come in to destroy my working space again."

Dumbledore threw up his hands in mock surrender. "Yes, yes, please, get on with it. You know best, of course. This extra consideration I am asking you to make will hardly take any extra effort at all. Perhaps you will even find some way to turn it to your advantage."

This put Snape fully on guard. Dumbledore could skirt the truth with the best diplomats in the world, but when he turned to lies as bald as this one certainly was, he was always ready to unload something truly awful. If Dumbledore had seen any possible way that Snape could have turned this situation to his advantage, that is exactly how he would have presented it. Instead, he had drawn the unwilling potions master into his office, gently warned him about a security problem, and now boldly lied about Snape being able to see some good from it. Severus gritted his teeth. "What is it?" he asked, not sure he really wanted to know.

"Oh, not that much," Albus said airily. "It's just that we'll have Harry Potter here over the summer, and I'd like you to make sure he doesn't get killed."

Snape stared. He scowled. Finally, in a voice so choked with anger that it was barely more than a whisper, he rasped, "You jest."

Dumbledore looked startled, then confused. He uttered a high pitched 'Hmmm?' then appeared to marshall his wandering thoughts. "Oh. No. Oh, no. I assure you. Potter will be here between terms. He has a summer job. He will be caring for the vegetation in the various greenhouses on behalf of Professor Sprout."

Snape's voice dripped venom. "I had thought that position was to be filled... with someone competent."

Dumbledore smiled. With a kindly twinkle in his eye, he said, "It is... unusual... to hear you refer to Neville Longbottom as 'competent,' Severus."

Scornfully, Snape stated, "I would be pleased to learn that a special decree had been issued to guarantee that Mister Longbottom would never again approach an innocent cauldron with the intent to do it harm by attempting to brew a potion. I am the first to admit, however, that potions are both an art and a science, while successfully making them is a craft. There are few who excel at the endeavor, and many who fail. And many of those find success in other fields. Mister Longbottom seemed to have found his field. I believe it was said that his natural affinity for the subject approached that of Professor Sprout herself?"

"And good for him! Skilled herbologists are as rare as... well... as skilled potion makers, come to think of it." Dumbledore smiled and paused, his focus far away. "This summer, it is Harry Potter who will be in the greenhouses while Professor Sprout takes a long-deserved vacation. And since that is the case, special arrangements must be made regarding security. You, as our greatest expert in counter-espionage, are absolutely crucial to our efforts."

Dumbledore was an absolute master of using the indefinite 'our' - especially when what he really meant was 'my,' Snape thought. "I suppose Potter's summer plans were arranged by you, personally," he said coldly.

"Eh? Oh. Oh, yes. Quite. Arranged them myself, yes. Can't lose the Boy Who Lived, you know. War with Voldemort coming, must keep our weapons in good order. Which is why I have arranged assistance for you in the matter of... ah... preventing our boy's untimely death. This summer, you will be joined by Mister Lupin."

Snape's face flushed dark red. His lips pulled back to expose his teeth. "That. Is. Not. Funny!" Flecks of spittle sprayed as the potions professor shook with rage.

"Nor is it intended to be so. It is what we are going to do this summer. Mister Lupin, who I am very sorry to have lost as a Professor..."

"Animal," Snape growled.

"Lycanthrope." Dumbledore corrected calmly. "And a quite useful individual. We will work together, Severus. We will ensure that the Boy Who Lived... continues to do so. And now I suggest that you get some rest. I have young Harry scheduled to meet with you in your office at nine o'clock sharp tomorrow morning."

--- --- ---

Since this was to be his first day of meetings with the Professors who would determine whether his summer at Hogwarts was a success or a failure, Harry Potter made sure that he was out of bed, bathed and dressed long before eight o'clock. His first meeting would be with Professor Sprout. He was concerned about that one, since the Herbology professor would be giving him his list of duties for the summer. But he feared the second appointment. That one would be with the Potions professor, Snape. The two of them had gotten off to a bad start with one another, and for some reason, whatever Harry did only made Snape hate him more. The thought that it would be Snape who supervised his stay at Hogwarts worried Harry. He could only hope that Remus Lupin would arrive soon to help ameliorate the worst of Snape's fury.

Harry skipped breakfast that morning, at least in part because he did not really know how his meals would be provided in the summer. Would the dining hall function between terms? Or did he have to summon a house elf and order each meal separately? He would have to ask someone... he guessed it would be Professor Sprout, since he imagined that Snape would make him out to be an idiot for not knowing how to feed himself in this place that had, after all, been his home for five years.

And that was the other part of why he had decided to eat nothing that morning. His stomach was none too settled, and there was no mystery as to why. He was nervous and afraid. Nervous about working for Professor Sprout, worried about letting her down, guilty about displacing Neville as her summer helper of choice. And most of all, worried about what Snape would do to him once he realized that Harry was in his power for the entire summer.

Giving himself plenty of time to make his first appointment, Harry walked through the strangely deserted castle, out the main entrance and around the wide grass swathe that surrounded the old stone walls. He had nearly circled around to the back of the school when he reached the path leading toward the Herbology Department, and the greenhouses in which he would be working. Once he arrived at the complex of buildings dedicated to the school's extensive collection of plants, he began peering in through the transparent greenhouse walls. There was no sense in going to Professor Sprout's office first, since she was almost never there. And, as he had expected, in the third greenhouse he checked, there was the professor, feeding some plants.

Most plants were fed by having amendments added to the soil in which they grew. These particular plants were somewhat different. They were a miniature, fast-blooming variety of the giant snapdragons that guarded garden paths against trespassers throughout most of the wizarding world. To feed these, the gardener had to hold a piece of meat just within snapping range of each plant. When the plant responded by snapping its feeding tube out toward the proffered treat, the keeper had to drop the meat and snatch his hand back out of range. It was said that the snapdragon would always go for the dropped piece of meat, instinctively understanding that it had a better chance of feasting on flesh that was falling than it did of catching something that was rapidly retreating. Bandaged fingers among the sixth-years who usually cared for the plants during the regular school term either disproved the theory, or testified to the sixth-years' slowness in snatching their hands out of range. Harry reckoned that he'd learn which it was this summer.

He opened the greenhouse door, stepped inside, then slammed the door quickly behind him to prevent a creeping creeping charlie from escaping into the great outdoors. The creeping creeping charlies were generally well-behaved and slow-growing within a small enclosure. But if any one of them were to get out of the greenhouse complex and root, the entire castle could be covered with creeping vines within a matter of weeks - or even days, in the case of a particularly young and vigorous plant.

Professor Sprout, at the far end of the greenhouse, 'hrumphed' at the door slam, and turned to scowl disapprovingly at the boy who had disturbed her plant feeding.

The Herbology professor was a short, plump woman whose demeanor was usually quite merry. When Harry pictured her face, he generally thought of round cheeks plumped on the corners of her smile, or a round chin under a friendly laugh. Professor Sprout was not smiling nor laughing now, however. In fact, Harry thought she looked positively grim. "Harry Potter," she stated, as though announcing his arrival to invisible onlookers. Harry felt a twinge of apprehension in the way she said his name. Of his regular professors - except for Hagrid, who had taught Care of Magical Creatures during one term - Professor Sprout was the most likely to call him, or any of her students, by first name. She was equally comfortable following Hogwarts tradition and calling him more formally, 'Mister Potter.' Hearing his first and last names pronounced together in such a flat tone made him think he was already in trouble. He swallowed hard and waited for his teacher to continue. "Albus... Headmaster Dumbledore told me you would be here. Well, come on in, then."

Harry already was in, and had already slammed the door behind him to keep the creeping creeping charlie confined. He wasn't quite sure what he should do, so he shuffled toward the professor uncertainly, earning him a look that clearly told him he was being an idiot. He picked up his pace and immediately stumbled over the trailing end of a tripvine. He recovered his balance with a skip and a hop, checked the floor for further obstacles and looked up to see Professor Sprout staring at him. She looked more like Professor Snape in a bad mood than he had ever seen any other teacher look. As Harry drew close to her, the tension of the unspoken guilt within him broke free and he blurted out, "Professor, I'm sorry about Neville. When Professor Dumbledore told me I would be working here this summer, I didn't know what to say."

"Mmmm Hmmm," Professor Sprout murmured in response, studying the boy shrewdly. "Albus... Professor Dumbledore has surprised me, as well." A ghost of her familiar smile broke through, and very gently she said, "Harry, what was it that you asked of the Headmaster?"

With a sinking feeling, Harry realized that he would have to admit to the entire conversation in the Headmaster's office. He could see that Dumbledore's assurances that the entire arrangement would seem to be his own fault would prove groundless once again. "Actually, all I asked was how to properly apply to stay at Hogwarts during the summer... to study. I specifically said that I meant to study my regular subjects, and that I had intended to stay in my room. Or my room and the library. Or wherever the Headmaster thought best. He thought it was best that I be here."

"I see," Professor Sprout said flatly. "He saw a chance to have you over the summer, so my specific request..." She pursed her lips in silence for a moment, then let out her breath, shaking her head. "Well. You're here, and we'll have to do the best we can with that."

Harry felt horrible, more like a burden than a potentially helpful worker. "Please Professor, I know you wanted Neville for the job. And I know that he is really much more qualified. So I got him to help me. I'll be writing with questions, and we'll speak by floo. He said I could talk to him every day, and he would give me advice."

"Oh, that's nice," Professor Sprout said archly. "A daily reminder of his banishment. Still, I don't doubt that you could use the help, and it will be better for the plants if Mister Longbottom can supplement my instructions. I shall have to write and give him my thanks."

"Yes, Professor," Harry replied dully, his heart somewhere near his shoes. In an attempt to win back some of Professor Sprout's confidence by showing some enthusiasm, he asked, "Where do I begin?"

The professor gave him a smile that had none of her usual humor in it. "I would love to show you," she said sarcastically. "But Albus... the Headmaster has you scheduled for another appointment this morning. Considering that you will be meeting with Professor Snape in the main building, downstairs, in the dungeons, you can probably make it on time if you go now. And hurry."

Completely abashed, Harry sadly asked, "When can I come back?"

"Oh..." Professor Sprout waved a hand distractedly. She had already turned back to feed the carnivorous plants as she continued, "Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow morning. And none of this napping about until eight. Be here at seven o'clock sharp. And be ready for a long day of work. I have a lot to show you."

As he backed carefully away, Harry called out, "Yes, ma'am. Seven o'clock. Thank you, Professor." Without turning, Professor Sprout waved absently in Harry's direction. He turned and hurried out of the greenhouse and uphill toward the castle.


	3. Chapter 3

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Chapter three

Contrary to Albus Dumbledore's suggestion, Severus Snape had not gone to get 'some rest' the previous night when he had left the Headmaster's office. Instead, he had gone to his own office and had begun the massive task of filing away the paperwork that had accumulated on his desk during the past term. He had taken a short nap once the largest piles had been put away, but after less than two hours of slumber, he had returned to the work, knowing that the more he got done immediately, the less he would have to deal with while babysitting Potter. He worked until he could no longer focus properly on the parchments before him, and realized that to avoid mistakes, he needed to do something different. Some of the burners in the Potions Class' brewing chamber needed major repairs, but a few simply needed adjustment. Those would provide a suitably unchallenging activity which would provide his brain some rest without wasting any of his valuable time. He opened the door that led from his office into the lecture area, behind which were the brewing stations. He stopped in the doorway, shocked. He reached into one of the cleverly concealed pockets in his robe and gripped his wand. Snape could not understand how it was possible, but right before his eyes, standing casually, reading ingredient lists on the crocks in the Potions laboratory shelves, was a muggle.

How the man had gotten there without triggering numerous wards... worse, how he could have opened the door to Severus' own classroom without Snape hearing him was a complete mystery. The man gave no indication that he was aware of Severus' presence. He seemed focused on crocks filled with herbs. Could this be merely an attempt to steal something? And if so, what could the man wish to steal?

Severus immediately began to catalog what he could see of the man's characteristics in case the seeming muggle really was a wizard and managed to disappear before he could be identified. The man was of medium height, thin, with a wiry build, and sandy, light hair. He wore a leather jacket, denim pants and heavy motorcycle boots. The man's posture was relaxed to the point of arrogance.

The apparent muggle turned to face the Potions professor. As his weight shifted, Severus could see the animal grace with which the man moved. Subtle sliding of hip and shoulder were dancelike in their fluidity. Was the man an acrobat? Or an assassin? The man met Severus' eyes with a steady, confident gaze. Focusing on those eyes, Severus' first impression was of their striking amber color.

Amber?

The man had no obvious scars, birthmarks or tattoos. A handsome face, really, though the man needed a shave and could have used a haircut. Although his fluid movement reminded Snape of some Death Eater- trained assassins, this man was no stranger. The broad grin that lighted his features was completely unfamiliar there, but other than that expression, that confidence, and that grace, this was someone he knew.

As a young teen, Snape had delighted in visual puzzles, where the subject of the artwork would suddenly be revealed when the viewer shifted his focus. Severus had thought that he had learned the important lesson from those exercises, which was, so far as he could tell, 'don't let your preconceived notions blind you to what is in front of your eyes.' The man before him fell into focus like one of those puzzles from long ago. The evidence was right before him - only it was impossible. "What?" Snape blurted, taking an involuntary step backward.

The Remus Lupin before him - who could not possibly be the same Remus Severus had known for years - laughed, an easy, carefree sound that Snape could not reconcile with the nervous toady that had followed James Potter and Sirius Black through school, nor with the shabby, insecure man who had taught Defense Against the Dark Arts for a time.

"Hello, Severus," the oddly different Lupin said, deliberately challenging the Potions master with the overly familiar use of his first name. His voice carried the absolute assurance of one born to authority. A king might speak like that - not with the pompous bombast actors gave to monarchs, but with such certainty in his subjects' absolute compliance with his commands that questioning their obedience never occurred to him.

"I have no time to spend with you, Wolf," Severus sneered, trying to regain some of his composure. "Anything you have to say to me will have to wait until later. I am meeting with Harry Potter..."

"Yes, I know," Remus grinned. "We're going to be taking care of him this summer. Together."

"Yes, well, good that you've been informed," Snape murmured uncertainly. The other man's smile was starting to bother him. It was more than confident. It seemed almost... possessive. "But since I have been designated the primary caregiver..."

"You would like to meet the boy in private, first," Remus agreed cheerfully. "Fine. I'll be in the castle. You have your meeting, and... maybe the two of us could have lunch together today. Or the three of us, if you're still with the boy. We'll have to get the three of us together some time."

"I have no time for lunch today. I doubt that I will have a free minute all summer, now that my work as been interrupted by this... babysitting." Snape used his most insufferably superior tone, but he noticed that his normally threatening manner had no effect on the strangely transformed Lupin.

"We'll see. Taking care of Harry ought to be a lot easier than you think. I'll be around, and I'll probably see you before I run into Harry." Receiving no response, he gave a very slight shrug, turned, and was gone.

Snape stared at the open door for a long time. He had schooled himself over the course of years to expect the unexpected. That meeting had taken him completely by surprise.

--- --- ---

Harry entered the open Potions class door cautiously, looking toward the office behind the lectern. He crept slowly into the room, listening for any sound of movement, and waiting for the office door to crash open and reveal the irascible Potions professor. To his surprise, the office door was already standing open. Harry walked as quietly as he could between the desks at which he and his classmates had sat, taking notes over the past five years. Once he had crossed half the room and could see through the office door, it became apparent that Snape was not at his desk, and not likely in his office at all. "Professor..." he called softly. A shadow fell over him.

"Mister Potter," Snape sneered, looming over the boy, having approached from the direction opposite to the one Harry had expected. Harry started, spun and looked up at the cold eyes staring at him.

"Ye....Yes, Sir," he said, trembling with nervousness.

"Do you have any idea of how much work I have to do between terms?" Snape demanded.

"Yes, Sir," Harry replied meekly.

Snape allowed an indulgent smile to touch his lips. "Oh, do go on, Mister Potter. Please, tell me what you imagine I get up to in the summer months while you students are all at play."

"Well sir," Harry said, glancing around the room to remind himself of what he had observed. "You have to repair all the damage the students have done to the brewing section, you have to restock all the ingredients, and re-order them on their shelves. You have to remove the marks anyone has made at his desk.... um... for starters."

Snape lost his smile. "And how is it that you come to know any of that?"

"Well, Sir," Harry said, forcing his eyes to meet Snape's. "Every year when we come in, it's like the classroom is brand new. I mean, the room is ancient... but... fresh. Ready for a new class. All the burns are repaired. I know I've left some scorches on the workbenches. And Neville... well... The ingredients jars are all full, too. And they're all in order. And none of the lids are crooked. And... I mean, a lot of students write on their desks. And there's never a mark on the first day of class."

Snape was impressed despite himself. The spoiled brat had actually used his eyes, and connected the images thus collected to his brain. Astounding. "As you say, the list of obligations you have mentioned is merely the beginning of my summer's labors. And yet, you seem to be able to appreciate the enormity of even those tasks. Now. Please imagine what burdens looking after you will have added to my workload."

"I'm sorry, Sir," Harry said, already sick of apologizing to everyone for what was, after all, Dumbledore's decision. "I never intended to be a burden to..."

"I am certain," Snape interrupted, "that you did not consider the impact your presence would have on others. Nevertheless, you are here, and I must..." Snape paused and his slight smile returned momentarily. "... keep an eye on you. Which is why I wonder if you would consent to carry one of these." He held out a small sphere, mostly white with a thin marbling of red. He shifted his palm, and a large hazel iris rolled to stare at Harry. "It is a magic eye."

"Like Mad-Eye Moody's?" Harry asked immediately, not thinking of the disrespect implied by his use of the nickname.

"Not at all," Snape snapped. "First of all, you needn't wear it, which is good news for your existing eyes, since both of those may remain in your head rather than being displaced by the magical one. Second, it has nowhere near the power and special abilities of the Moody model. This is, essentially, a lens through which I might observe you and your immediate surroundings."

Harry stared at the odd ball, thinking that it looked rather sick rolling around in Snape's palm as it was. "How do you... I... carry it?"

"It is imbued with a charm, not unlike that which is placed on quiddich's Golden Snitch," Snape lectured, sounding much less threatening while explaining magical workings than while scolding Harry for ruining his summer. "I simply touch the eye to your skin, and it will hover about you, allowing me to keep watch without having to dog your steps for the next three months."

"That's... kind of creepy," Harry said, knowing that if he were going to protest such a constant invasion of his privacy, he had better do it now, before the thing was stuck hovering around him. "I mean... uh... there's a reason bathrooms have doors." His face burned bright red.

"And there's a reason that large, public places such as Hogwarts have large, public restrooms," Snape scoffed. "It's a matter of practical usage. Just as watching over you is a matter of impractical usage of my time."

"But when I go to bed at night," Harry persisted, trying to keep the whine out of his voice. "I'll be in a dorm room... I'll be all alone... that is, I'll be going to bed without anyone around, and...."

Snape's face adopted an expression that was a grotesque parody of concern. "Do you play with yourself, Mister Potter?" he inquired with a mockery of gentle kindness.

"Don't you?" Harry shot back.

"Hmmm..." Snape considered for a moment, then said, as though dictating to an unseen secretary, "Interested in his Professor's auto-erotic habits. I believe I will have to put that in my report on this summer's progress. Which report will, I believe, be included in your permanent record."

"You started it," Harry grumbled.

"Belligerent and argumentative. Not a promising start for our first day of working together, is it, Mister Potter? That shall have to be noted as well."

"Note whatever you want," Harry pouted. "Someone will notice that all the derogatory comments come from one professor."

"Oh, dear boy," Snape said in mock sympathy. "My notations are simply observances. For truly derogatory comments regarding this summer, I think you would have to review the report that will be submitted by Professor Sprout."

Harry wished he could simply melt into the floor. He was doomed before he started. Snape had always hated him, but now he had made a new enemy in Professor Sprout. Neville would bear a grudge over this summer's job fiasco for a long time, and Dumbledore... What had Dumbledore been thinking?

"You won't get far if you run, boy," Snape scolded. Harry gave a startled 'Hurmpf?,' and Snape sneered. "Escape is writ large over your face, Mister Potter. You look like a rabbit that has spotted the approach of the wolf. An observant rabbit gives itself a chance to survive by keeping a wary eye out. For you, it is far too late. Neither Professor Sprout nor myself can allow you to go missing. You are here for the summer, you are working for her, and you are answerable to me. Now. Eye?" He held the hazel-irised orb out toward Harry.

"I'd rather not," Harry said, shrinking away from the spy device.

Snape closed his hand around the magic eye and returned it to some hidden pocket of his robes. His scowl was very menacing. "In order for the charm to function properly, the subject of the observation must cooperate, at least to the extent of giving consent. If you are going to force me to follow you about, Mister Potter, you are going to build up a veritable storehouse of ill will on my part. I will allow you to speak with Mister Lupin before I bring up the subject again. I would hope that he will be able to instill some confidence in you regarding this plan. Until then: what is your schedule in the Herbology department this season?"

Harry felt very stupid having to reply, "I don't know. I met with Professor Sprout this morning, and all she did was send me here. And tell me to go back at seven o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. And to be prepared to work all day. Beyond that... I don't know."

Snape stared. He opened his mouth to speak several times, but could say nothing. He scowled and stared. Finally, with disbelief, he managed, "That is the best you can do? You don't know. Well. As I have already said, not a promising start. For tomorrow, once Professor Sprout dismisses you, please report back to this office. Good day, Mister Potter." Without waiting for a reply, Snape turned and walked away.

--- --- ---

Vincent Crabbe grabbed the tin of Floo Powder from the shelf and stalked over to his family's fireplace with great impatience. He had sat on his big news for over two days, and was anxious to tell someone. Meeting the most feared dark wizard on earth was not something you could just bring up at the local ball court, though. Since withholding knowledge of 'you-know-who's' whereabouts and activities was illegal (technically, it was treason, and if the Ministry wanted to push it hard enough, a capital crime) Vincent had to be somewhat careful about who he told.

Vincent had tried to call Draco, but Malfoy was gone somewhere. The rich bastard was probably taking a summer tour of the world, even with his old Dad in jail. Crabbe had tried to raise any of the numerous hearths in Malfoy Manor via the Floo Network, but even the flames that had never before gone out - like the constant-warmers in the kitchens - had, surprisingly, all been allowed to lie cold.

There were a few sons of Death Eaters he could have contacted, but none that knew him well enough to be able to recognize when he was telling the truth. In those cases, it would be impossible to have a serious discussion about what had actually happened. He could all-too-easily imagine the ensuing conversations. "I saw the Dark Lord." "No, you didn't." "Yes, I did." "No, you didn't." "Yes, I did." "No, you didn't." "Yes, I did." No, with all things considered, Gregory Goyle was the one person he really wanted to tell. For one thing, Greg would know he was serious. More importantly, Vince would be able to lord his accomplishment over Goyle at least until the other boy got his first chance to meet Voldemort.

If Greg had a fireplace in his own room, Vincent would have checked in regularly until he found the other boy at home. Instead, he found that he needed to plan his calls more cleverly. Last time he had Flooed, Vincent had been greeted by Goyle's mother, who smiled, called him 'dear,' and spoke to him in the tone of voice Vincent thought might have been appropriate for soothing a tiny dog. It certainly did not fit his assessment of how to speak to a young man who had just met the most feared dark wizard in the entire world. As he had broken the connection, he had nearly gagged as Mrs. Goyle had charged him with conveying her wishes for 'Lots of Love' to his mother. Vincent was determined to get in touch with Gregory, but he did not want to repeat that kind of conversation for anything.

Vincent grabbed a pinch of Floo Powder and flicked it into the hearth, staring blankly as the result was... nothing. 'Oh, right. Need fire,' he recalled, and knelt down to toss in a few sticks of kindling and a larger piece of cut wood. "Incendio," he said with a snap of his wand, igniting the kindling. The Floo Powder, lying inert on the hearth floor, caught fire suddenly, consuming its entire volume at once. The resultant explosion made Vincent's ears ring, blew his hair back and covered his face in ashes, but did not open the Floo Network for communication. Looking about, Crabbe also noticed that the tiny blast had blown flaming bits of kindling out into the living room. Cursing, Vincent gathered them by grabbing at each one and tossing it toward the hearth as soon as he felt the slightest bit of purchase in his grip on the flaming wood. Most of the burning chips flew safely onto the bricks, but a few went wide, one leaving a singe mark at the bottom corner of the front window's curtain, and another leaving a sooty streak down one of the lampshades. Crabbe knew he could hide the first and cast a cleaning charm on the second, but the frustration of the exploding floo made him more determined than ever to make that call before attempting any cleaning or repairs. He grabbed his shirt tail, wiped ashes from his face, dragged his fingers through his hair, blew on the kindling to encourage the flames, then flicked another fingerfull of Floo Powder. Within moments, he was looking through the grate into the Goyle home.

"Oi!," he shouted into the empty room. "Oi, Greg!"

This time, Gregory Goyle was home. He swaggered toward the fireplace grinning. "What, want your ball back, little boy? Sorry, I fed it to my..."

Vincent was too anxious to let Gregory finish his taunt, "Can you talk?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper.

Gregory let his face go blank. "Uhh... let's see. Testing, one, two... Yeah, mate, I think I can."

"No, you git," Vincent spat. "I mean..."

"Dad's pissed off someplace, Mum's out doing shopping. I'm a free man, Vince. Tell me your tale."

"Well, all right, then," Vincent said settling in for some serious boasting. "Guess what I've been about."

"You're not scarred up," Greg noted, staring through the flames at his friend's face. "And you seem rather pleased with yourself. So I'm going to guess that you finally got your hands down that skinny Elizabeth's pants."

"Blind me, Greg," Vincent said with exasperation. "I haven't seen Liz since she started working 'cross town. She stays with her real dad now. And from what I understand, she has a fancy man of her own already." In a sing-song lilt, Vincent recited, "Heeee has an Au-To-Mo-Beel. Well, fuck her."

"Right, Vin. Be glad to. Since you couldn't manage it," Greg barked with laughter.

"Yeah, so what have you been doing that's so great, then?" As soon as he had said it, Vincent knew it was a mistake to leave such a perfect opening for Gregory. Now, he would have to listen to the other boy's stories first. Damn.

"Taking Eileen up to the Nature Preserve," Greg said proudly. "We've found three new places to do it in the last week alone. One has a waterfall. The splash off of it cools your ass while you're getting all heated."

VIncent looked skeptical. "What? You get naked in the bloody park?"

"Depends," Gregory shrugged. "Sometimes its a matter of her skirt up and no panties. And what I've got's long enough to just open my fly and let 'im out. But some places - like top of that big hill, where you can see for miles, and nobody else is gonna climb up there, anyway... its bloody starkers every time, mate. Let the wind blow on my Willie... then let Eileen do the same."

"Yeah," Vincent said absently, envious in spite of himself, but really only waiting to get back to his own big news. "So guess what I've been about."

"No Elizabeth, no 'auto-mo-bile'... I know you've got no money to splurge with. So tell me."

"I met with the Dark Lord Voldemort."

"Bull!" Goyle exploded as though trying to scare Crabbe into admitting a lie.

"Nope. Straight up. The most feared dark wizard in the..." Crabbe was so chuffed with his boast that he was completely shocked when his friend hissed and drew a hand across his throat.

"Shut UP!" Goyle commanded. "Are you daft? Should you even be saying anything like that over the bleeding floo?"

"Aw, think a bit, Greg," Vincent whined. Then, fluttering his fingers and speaking in a high, squeaky voice, "May-be if one of us was a pret-ty gir-ul..." He dropped the pose and sneered, "Then some old perv might tune in... might be interested in what a couple of teen blokes are talking of through their home fires, eh? But we're not, so who's going to pay either one of us any mind?"

Gregory contemplated his friend in a new light. Sometimes, being very stupid allowed someone like Vince to see the simplest things more clearly - the sorts of things that smarter blokes passed over. Who would be interested in a pair of almost-sixth-year schoolboys on the floo to one another? Probably no one. "All right, then, mate. You saw the... the big man. No need for names, we've got the main story line laid out, right? So did your old dad take you in?"

"Nah. It was Snape."

Gregory finally began to believe that Vincent was telling the truth, simply because he could not imagine Crabbe making up such a story featuring Snape. His dad, sure, the old man had been wearing the mask for years. Greg expected his own father to bring him to a meeting and get him signed up sooner or later. But their Potions professor? If Vince had made that up, he must have been taking imagination pills. "What, Head o' House Snape?"

"Head o' House is the least of it," Vincent related with excitement. "Vol... uhhh... the big man was, like, his chum. They didn't talk a lot. It was more like, 'Oh, yeah, you're here again.' Like they were used to hanging together, so there wasn't a lot of bullshite to talk about. Which meant that the Dark... umm... the man talked to me, mostly."

"And he said...?" Gregory prompted impatiently.

"He wants converts. People whose parents fought against him, especially. Like, if we bring him recruits, we'll be in charge. Bring 'em in and put 'em under our supervision."

"Babies who don't know anything," Goyle scoffed. "Look, if you want to babysit newbies, have at it. I don't believe it will be anywhere near as fun as you think it will be."

Vincent saw his audience losing the surprised admiration Crabbe had intended him to keep. It was time for a stronger play. "He wants someone in particular," he teased.

"Who?" Goyle said with annoyance. Sometimes (actually, most times) getting anything coherent out of Crabbe was like getting hard to get things from a place out of which it was hard to get them. It could be very irritating, and right now it was especially so.

"Harry Potter," Vincent said with a superior smirk.

"Oh... bloody Hell!" Barked Goyle. "Mordred on a bicycle, Vince. He wants the most conceited, self-important fathead of all the big-headed Gryffs? Why didn't he just tell you to go get him Albus Dumbledore?"

Vincent peered at his friend through the flames as though Gregory had just gone mad. Gently, so as to convey the facts, in case Goyle had missed something in their conversation, he explained, "Dumbledore's not a student, is he? The big man couldn't expect me to go up and give the old Headmaster a recruitment speech, now, could he?"

Gregory Goyle's mind reeled. Vincent had been taken in to see the Dark Lord? Crabbe the blockhead? Crabbe the slow? Taken in by Snape, who must realize how stupid the young thug was? All while Greg remained sitting on his ass, waiting for his dad to invite him to a bleeding Death Eater meeting? This was outrageous! He carefully schooled his expression to keep from frightening the boy on the other side of the flames, and lightly asked, "So... what did you say?"

"I told him I'd get him his recruit!"

"You told him you'd get Potter for him?"

"Bloody well right!"

"And he believed you?"

"He was happy about it!"

"He said that?" Goyle demanded disbelievingly.

"We discussed it," Crabbe corrected with a smirk.

"Right, then," Goyle said absently, a sinking feeling in his chest. "So it's not Dumbledore. So what? How are you going to get Harry bleeding Potter, then?"

"Human nature," Crabbe stated with confidence. "Look. What do normal people want? I don't mean people in dire straights, like. I mean... if you're hungry, you want food. If you're sleepy, you want a home to go rest in. If you're horny, well, you know. But I mean normal people. People who have a little bit of all the regular stuff. Food to eat, bed to sleep in... what do normal people want?"

Goyle shrugged. "They want to be rich."

"Close," Crabbe said, lifting a finger like an enthusiastic lecturer. "They want to be famous. Look when the Prophet comes out every day. You see people tearing through it, flipping pages real fast? They're not reading. They're looking for themselves. They want to be mentioned, even if they hate what the bleeding Prophet says about them, they want to be pictured, written about, covered... famous. Well, Potter is already famous!"

Goyle gaped at his friend incredulously. "Well, then, mate - you're working yourself backward into a corner. Potter is already famous. So that's one less thing you can offer him. Great. Now he hates you, AND you can't offer to get him in the newspaper. Great work, Vince."

"No, no, no... That's the beauty part," Crabbe insisted. "What do FAMOUS people want?"

Now Goyle was lost. Vince had obviously worked his knickers into knots over this, and had come out mental. "Vince... Famous people - like normal people - want to be rich."

"Close," Vincent declaimed again. "But nobody wants to collect galleons just to have 'em to rub together, do they? When people say 'rich' they mean that they want to be treated like they were rich. What they really want... and what famous people want most of all... is power."

Gregory was stunned. When Vincent Crabbe started making sense, it was time to check outside the windows for flying pigs and book your ski trips to Hell. But Vince had made sense, in a weird way. Potter was probably sick and tired of all the 'famous' he already had. So power would seem pretty sweet to the Boy Who Lived. But to Gregory's amazement, Crabbe was not yet finished.

"Look, say you're Harry Potter," Vince suggested.

"Bleaugh!" Greg blurted. "I'm soiled. Let me go wash."

"All right, just consider Harry Potter," Vince said with hands up in a stopping motion, to keep Greg from breaking the connection. "How is he going to get any real power by graduating school, getting a job, following along behind Dumbledore, blah, blah, blah...yawn? Whereas if he were to join up with... the big man... Think about it. The big man asked for him. By name. He wants him. He has plans for him. So, little Harry Potter goes in to meet with... the big man... and he comes out Duke of Dorchester or something like that. I mean, what's not to like?"

"Right. Good plan," Gregory said distractedly, then turned to look over his shoulder and whipped his head back around to face the fire once more. "Bloody hell. It's my mum. Piss off, then. We'll talk later, right?"

Vincent barely had time to nod before the connection was broken.

Gregory sat on his living room floor, thinking. Vince had fallen for the lie about Greg's mother returning home, and it was a good thing, too. Greg could hardly have stood speaking with Crabbe any more without taking a break for some serious thought. This situation was all totally fucked. Vince had met with Voldemort. Vince had actually made some sense over the floo. Vince might god-damned well bring the Dark Lord the recruit of his choice... and what would happen then? What about Vince Crabbe becoming boss of all the new-generation Death Eaters? Especially after all that rot about 'new recruits' and 'being in charge' of all the newbies. Gregory himself was not yet a Deatheater. Would Vincent be 'in charge' of him, too? This was not to be borne. Something would have to be done. And to do it right, he would need help. He grabbed the tin of Floo Powder and thought of a list of those who would be likely to help him. Chaz Thrasher, first. Chaz was big, and had a few really nasty curses under his belt. Boyd Reimuth, next. Reimuth knew some German spells that really hurt - but left no visible traces. By the time he had fed some more sticks into the fire, Gregory had a list of the young wizards who would make up his posse. Crabbe would not be getting the Boy Who Lived to join the Death Eaters this summer, if Gregory Goyle had anything to say about it.

--- --- ---

The Hogwarts castle had always been a place designed to insure the cardiovascular health of its residents. No two rooms in the entire building were on exactly the same level, so even going between two classes on the same floor involved at least a few low stairs, and a few classrooms required a step or two up or down simply to cross their entire length. The seemingly endless (and frequently shifting) staircases guaranteed that there would be plenty of climbing to do for anyone who had several different places to visit within the castle, and Harry had often felt that his class schedule in particular had been specially arranged to make certain that he would have the farthest possible vertical distance to travel between classrooms. And now that he had experienced the trek from Gryffindor Tower to the greenhouses to the dungeons all in one nearly uninterrupted rush, he could tell that he would be thoroughly sick of climbing by the end of the summer.

Now that the meeting with Snape was over, Harry found himself climbing again. This time, it was back to his room in the Gryffindor Tower for what might prove to be his last free day of summer. He reckoned he had better get some rest, since it sounded like Professor Sprout was going to set him a heavy workload starting tomorrow. He reached one of the wide, square landings between flights of stairs and took a moment to admire the seemingly empty castle spread out below him. To Harry, every facet of Hogwarts seemed to sparkle with magic, even when it wasn't doing anything particularly magical. A structural engineer might have said that the old pile of stones was doing some pretty impressive magic just to remain standing. But to Harry's eyes, even though it was very old, there was something inspiring about the very fact of Hogwarts' existence. A school of magic, a home away from his hated family, a place where the statues moved, pictures talked, and ghosts taught classes... his love for the place asserted itself once again in a rush of emotion that left his eyes moist and his heart feeling quite a bit too large for his chest. Smiling broadly, he turned toward the upward flight of stairs, and practically ran straight into a muggle.

His first impression was that a movie star was visiting the school. He struggled to find some explanation for that, and failed. His confusion only lasted a second, though. He blinked, and nearly slapped himself for not recognizing the man immediately. "Professor Lupin!"

Remus' leather jacket creaked slightly as he shifted his weight. He cocked his head and studied the boy before him carefully. "Harry? Are you regressing? Or do you have amnesia? I'm no Professor any more." His teasing sounded kindly enough that it did nothing to wipe the smile from Harry's face.

"You were the best..." Harry began, but a slight, nearly silent intake of breath from Remus was enough to stop him from finishing his statement. He stood there, uncertain of how much he had offended the man.

"And," Lupin admonished him. "I had thought we were better friends than that. Call me Remus and we'll both be happier."

"Yes, Sir," Harry replied immediately.

"Yes... What?" Lupin challenged.

Harry's face lit with a smile even broader than his last. "Remus!" he agreed happily.

With an air of studied nonchalance, Remus leaned back against the stair rail and looked carefully all around them. "Harry... What are your plans for the rest of the day?"

Harry looked a bit embarrassed. "Go sit in my room, I guess. Professor Sprout doesn't want me back until tomorrow morning... really early tomorrow morning. And Professor Snape said to report back to him when Professor Sprout is finished with me. So, for today..." he shrugged.

"Have you been expressly forbidden to leave the school grounds?"

Harry thought about it. He had no desire to get into any trouble. Or, he thought sourly, any more trouble, since it felt like he was in trouble already, what with Professor Sprout angry that he was here in place of Neville and Professor Snape as contemptuous of him as ever. But although no one had actually put it that way, he really did have a free day and evening that he reckoned he could spend however he liked. Cautiously, he said, "No... no one actually said I couldn't leave the grounds..."

"I thought you might like to take a stroll toward Hogsmeade with me," Lupin suggested.

"That'd be great!" Harry enthused. "Can we go now?"

Lupin considered for a moment, then suggested, "Do us a favor and toss that robe back into your room. Take off the Gryffindor house livery as well - your tie or anything with a crest."

"For Hogsmeade? But they're all-wizard down there."

"Harry..." Lupin corrected gently. "Listen carefully when you accept an invitation. I said: 'toward Hogsmeade.'

Harry was more confused than before. "OK... Is now a good time to go?"

"It may be the only time we will be able to go," Remus said seriously. "Snape wants to keep an eye on you..." To Lupin's surprise, Harry laughed out loud. The boy wanted to explain, but Remus held up a hand to forestall him, and said, "Later. Once we're on our way. You ditch the robe and the tie, and meet me by the front entrance."

With a sudden pang of guilty conscience, Harry asked, "Should we... you know... check in with someone first?"

Remus grinned mischievously at that. "We'll pass Hagrid's hut on the way out. We'll give him a wave. That should count as checking in - or, rather, checking out - if anyone cares to ask about it later. Now up you go. See you at the front!"

When Harry descended the stairs again, he did not quite look like he did when living at his aunt and uncle's home. For one thing, his under-robe school clothes fit him a lot better than the Dudley hand-me-downs he got at the Dursleys. But without the robe and House tie over those clothes, Harry hardly looked like a proper magic student, either. He wondered if he looked completely foolish. But Remus nodded in approval as he saw him approaching, and waved for Harry to follow him along the path that led away from the castle and down toward the only entirely-wizard settlement in all of Great Britain, and perhaps in the world: Hogsmeade.

As Remus had predicted, Hagrid was outside of his hut, preparing the midday meal for some of the larger creatures he kept in paddocks that were arranged, in Harry's opinion, far too close to the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid saw the pair of walkers and waved, Harry and Remus returned the greeting, and the half-giant returned to mixing ingredients in a large wooden tub. Harry thought the things Hagrid was tossing in looked revolting, and he fancied that he could smell the concoction, even at this distance. Lupin smiled and picked up the pace. "You see, Harry? We have very properly let a staff member know that we are out for a stroll. No one can accuse you of sneaking, can they? Anyone who bothered to look out of a castle window could see us, and we're certainly not making any secret of our departure."

Harry nodded happily. After the tense meetings in the greenhouse and dungeon, he finally felt relaxed again. He and Remus walked off of Hogwarts' grounds, and began the winding descent toward Hogsmeade. After negotiating two rather sharp turns, Remus stopped, looked around, then sniffed the air carefully. He sniffed again, listened for a while, had another look around, and gave a small shrug. "Have you ever apparated, Harry?"

"Yes..." the boy replied hesitantly, thinking of his trips through the Floo Network, and the horrible sensation of portkey transportation.

"Good," Remus smiled, and drew Harry close to him in a tight bear hug. "Hang on, then."

Harry's senses were scrambled as he felt himself torn out of reality and thrust back into it with irresistible force. He thought he could hear the tiny thunderclap as air rushed in to fill the place his body had been an instant previously. Then he was nearly deafened by the sharp crack of air being displaced by his sudden appearance. He blinked and looked around, and was glad there was no one else nearby to see him. He was standing in a filthy city alleyway hugging a man more than twice his age. Remus did not release him at once, and Harry was grateful for that as he felt his knees buckle as all his muscles went weak.

"Not used to apparation? No surprise, that's one of the reasons there's an age restriction and licensing requirements for using the spell. A child might leave himself helpless if he were not prepared. And if someone performs the magic incorrectly," Remus shuddered. "Let's leave that discussion for another time. Can you stand?"

Harry nodded and shakily pulled himself out of the man's grip. He put a hand against a soot-covered brick wall for a moment to hold himself up, and then, with a suddenness that shocked him, the apparation sickness had passed, and he was as strong and alert as he had been all morning.

"Come on, then," Remus called over his shoulder, already walking toward the busy street at the alley's end. "There's a place I'd like to show you."

They walked several blocks through the busy streets. Harry was completely baffled by where they could have gone. It was definitely English, but completely unfamiliar. Remus laughed when Harry admitted his confusion. "You've been here, boy." Harry shook his head in disbelief. Remus pointed out a tall building. "Recognize that? No? You've seen the other side of it when you went to the station to meet the Hogwarts Express. This is London. You were within two miles of here, but I would bet money your uncle would never have driven through this neighborhood."

Harry had to agree with that assessment. He could easily imagine what Uncle Vernon would have had to say about the number of Pakistani, Indian and Oriental faces on the street. As though to underscore that thought, Remus turned into a doorway surrounded by oriental writing. He pushed aside curtains decorated with large, brightly colored paintings of carp and stepped into a room lit by hanging paper lamps.

Harry heard a cheerful cry of, "Remus! I thought you must have been dead! Where have you been?" The voice was thickly accented with unmistakable London working-class pronunciation. Harry was shocked to see that the man who had shouted was the obviously Japanese. He shook Remus' hand enthusiastically, then turned a skeptical eye on Harry. "Who's this?"

"My best friend's son. My best friend is dead. So that makes me guardian."

"Legal guardian, eh?"

"No," Remus said grimly. "The people he's supposed to go to are scum. Wellington, we need a booth. We need to discuss the will."

Wellington nodded. "We've got one. But no beer for the boy. No sake. We have enough to worry about without underage drinking. I'll see if there's a waiter to take your order."

"No need," Remus assured him. We need two maguro, a cucumber roll, tea and two root beers. And some time. Alone."

Wellington nodded his understanding. "Number eleven. You know where it is? Good. I'll get your food."

'Number eleven' was a private room with a low table and cushions right on the floor. Remus removed his shoes before stepping in and indicated that Harry should do the same. A waiter bustled in before they had quite gotten settled, and placed a hot pot of tea and some tiny cups on their table. By the time Remus had poured a cup of tea for each of them, Wellington was there with strange looking food on heavy blue china plates, and two foaming mugs of root beer. Wellington arranged the items carefully, sketched a quick salute at Remus, and closed the door as he left.

Remus settled back on the cushions and gave a slow, relaxed sigh. "Have you had sushi before?" Harry shook his head. "I would start with the roll, first, then. Just vegetables and rice, very easy on the palate. Oh, and a little hot, too. The green spice is a kind of horseradish."

Harry took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. A bit bland, he thought. Then his eyes watered and his nose began to run. He grabbed his root beer to quell the fire in his mouth.

"A little hot," Remus reminded him and popped a slice of roll into his mouth with great enjoyment. He waited for Harry to catch his breath after the surprise of the wasabi, then very casually asked, "How did you get your summer job, Harry?"

Harry had a great amount of bitterness built up over that very question. He began to answer, and couldn't seem to stop talking. Remus listened patiently, nodding and encouraging the boy to continue.

"I only wanted to avoid my aunt and uncle this summer. I asked if I could stay at Hogwarts. I wanted to study, I said. I would stay in my room, or my room and the library, or... or anywhere. I would have stayed locked up in the dungeon if that would have kept me from the Dursleys.' Dumbledore told me I'd have to take Neville's job. I said that wasn't fair, and he threatened to send me home with an escort of dementors if I didn't take the Herbology job. I said that Professor Sprout would be angry and Neville would hate me, but he said that it would all be his fault, and that no one could blame me. But everyone blamed me anyway, even though they're furious at Dumbledore as well. And now Snape wants me to have a magic eye to follow me everywhere and spy on me, and Professor Sprout doesn't think I can do the job, and I haven't seen Dumbledore at all, and Neville said he would help me by giving me advice through the floo, but... but at least I don't have to go back to the Dursleys.' I seem to have gotten what I wanted. But somehow, I feel that I lost, like this is all going to turn out bad."

Remus let Harry finish and sat silently for a while after the boy had said his piece. "It's always that way with Dumbledore, Harry. You pay for anything you get, and sometimes you don't even get what you've paid for. That's why we had to come here. Dumbledore has ways of listening in to everyone. Do you remember the Weasley Twins' invention, the Extensible Ear? I remind you, the Weasley twins are very young. And they are definitely not very serious-minded individuals. And yet they invented a listening device that can eavesdrop on whispered conversations that take place many meters from the user. By contrast, Dumbledore is very old. And he is very, very serious about everything he does, no matter how he may appear in his daily routine. And he is a very powerful wizard. And Hogwarts has been his base of operations for generations. Imagine what kind of surveillance system he must have in place by now. Which is why we need to get Professor Snape's magic eye on you."

Harry was outraged at that conclusion. He couldn't even make a coherent protest. "Wh... Is... I mea... No wa..." he babbled.

Remus was not impressed. "We cannot allow Dumbledore to be the only one who knows what you're doing. I wish I had a magic eye to give you. But since I don't, Snape's will have to do."

"Did he invent it?" Harry asked hopelessly. If the magic eye were Snape's own invention, it would be impossible to get one that was free of Snape's own particular brand of maliciousness.

"What?" Remus looked at the boy as though Harry had lost his mind. Then he reminded himself of Harry's upbringing, completely divorced from the magical world. More kindly, he explained, "Oh, no. I doubt that Severus would have even researched anything quite as... umm... mekanixal as this. Your Professor Snape is really a genius at harnessing the magic that operates on the... the smallest... the tiniest level... I mean..."

"The atomic level?" Harry supplied.

Remus thought a moment and decided that the muggle term did serve well in this case. "Yes. Severus knows how magic operates on the atomic level. When very precise quantities of very precise ingredients are combined in a precise..." Remus laughed at himself. "I sound like a broken record. But really, when all those precise things are combined in a very precise manner. That's the reason he's always so picky about the way things are cut, or so particular about when they are added to a mixture. It can make the man seem insufferable, but really, it's a mark of genius. Wizards never saw the necessity of developing an 'atomic' theory. They had magnifying glasses for the few applications that required some boost to visual acuity, but we don't really even have decent microscopes, compared to muggle instruments. Let alone atom-smashers and all those extreme-focus machines that give such detailed pictures of the very tiny. So it should really amaze you that in your potions class, you are magically manipulating parts of your ingredients that are so miniscule you will never be able to see them. That you get results at all is surprising. That some of those results are very powerful and very reliable is practically miraculous.

Remus chuckled lightly and returned to the discussion at hand. "Sorry. Got a bit carried away. I was never very good with potions, myself. Much to my own sorrow. Anyway. Professor Snape works with potions very well, and I believe that no one knowledgeable of the subject could argue with that. But he is so focused on that discipline, that he has never explored any of the closely related applications of magical research. Mekanix, for example."

"Mechanics?" Harry asked. "Like fixing machines? Is that really close to potion making?"

"No, you're thinking of muggle pursuits," Remus corrected. "Mekanix are... Do you recall the planetarium, near my old 'Defense Against the Dark Arts' office?"

"Where the planets and moons all swing 'round the sun? That's great. I've sat and watched it several times. Well, mostly when you were... still teaching, you know." Harry flushed scarlet, certain that he had once again stirred unpleasant memories.

Remus covered Harry's hand with his own. He caught Harry's eye and waited until the boy met his gaze directly. "Harry. I was glad to have the opportunity to teach. I was glad to use that opportunity to be reunited with all the wizards and witches I thought I had been separated from forever. I quit on my own, you remember. And since quitting, I have done some work for Dumbledore all on my own initiative. So I'm not bitter about Hogwarts, or my classes I taught there, or even the way that I left. Most of all, I'm glad that I met you. At first, I was glad because you were James' son. Then, I was glad because you're Harry. And I am genuinely glad to know you." He smiled warmly at the cub of his pack, pleased at how well the boy had turned out. "So don't feel bad about referring to my time as a teacher. Just don't call me Professor, O.K.?"

Harry grinned and nodded, glad he didn't have to be embarrassed about speaking of the time he had met Remus.

"Well," Remus said, giving Harry's hand a pat and sitting back to take a sip of tea. "The planetarium - near my old office," he added with a wink. "Is a perfect example of mekanix. Magical machines, if you will. That's really a poor explanation, since wizards have followed a very different path of development from muggles, especially over the past thousand years - the very time period during which muggles developed machinery to such a high degree, while wizards essentially ignored it. So mekanix are, really... let's see if I can recall it... 'Inanimate objects bespelled to perform certain repetitive tasks in a manner....' uhhh. Oh, fu... that is, blast. I can't remember the correct description. It's been years since I last heard it recited. Anyway. Magical machines, for want of a better word."

Harry returned to his central worry. "So Snape didn't invent the magical eye."

"Oh!" Remus remembered what he was supposed to be explaining. "No. The Eye has an interesting story all its own. It was supposed to make the fortune of a Hungarian wizard, a wild young rebel who left his family's tradition of specializing in Dragon research to strike out on his own as an inventor. He specialized in mekanix, and a few of his minor inventions showed incredible promise for such a young wizard. I believe that one of his bearings is now commonly used in most Sneakoscopes. He worked on practical things, small improvements to existing products, that kind of work. But when he announced the invention of the Eye - along with a wizard patent covering almost every facet of the device, and a marketing company to sell it - he started receiving advance orders that very day. People who were parents of small children when that announcement was made still remember the name of Otto Tadminder and his invention that was going to make their lives so much easier - the AutoMinder Eye.

"Otto sold thousands of Eyes the very first day they were available for delivery. And hundreds every day after that... for about a week. Then things started to turn sour for Tadminder Manufacturing. The sad part was that it wasn't Otto's faults that made his business fail - it was his best qualities.

"Many people - I am one of them - believe that Otto was a very good man. He wanted to make very sure that his invention, intended to benefit parents and their young children, would not be abused by government, journalists, or voyeurs."

"Voieoo...?" Harry interrupted.

"Those who are excited by observing others at private moments. There are degrees of meaning, but that's a discussion for another time."

Harry could imagine that it was. He had been thinking a lot of the last time he had seen Hermione, walking down the stairs of Gryffindor Tower. He would have liked to observe her in a private moment. Then he recalled that she would be spending a lot of the summer with Ron. He decided that they could have their private moments all to themselves.

"The point is," Remus said sharply, pulling Harry back to the present, "that most people believe the reason Otto took so long to apply for his patents and market the Eye was that he made very sure that the 'consent factor' was built very deeply into the workings of the thing. Now, when people with very tiny babies received their Eyes, they had no problem getting them to work. They would hold their babies, talk pleasant baby talk to them, and stroke their skin with the Eye. As soon as the baby accepted the device as part of this good treatment, bang!, the thing was working. Parent puts baby down and goes off to another part of the house, able to check in on the youngster at any time.

"Two problems arose immediately.

"All one needs to do in order to check on the Eye is to think about the subject to which the Eye is attached. Parents of very small babies are thinking about their babies nearly all the time. So, a large number of parents found themselves effectively blind, since their visual input was entirely taken over by the Eye. They could see their babies, and their babies' surroundings, perfectly well. But they couldn't see anything that was right in front of their faces. Then, there were the babies themselves. I suppose you have seen a baby with a mobile hanging over its crib?"

"Well, uh, no," Harry admitted. "I haven't seen much of babies at all, actually."

"People put hanging toys over a baby's bed so that the infant will learn depth perception, interacting with its environment, cause and effect - profound lessons from such a simple thing as swatting at a hanging toy with one's hand. The eyes did the babies the service of hovering right within their swatting range. And so the babies slapped the devices into the walls.

"You know, the promotional material for the Eye emphasized how very like a golden snitch the orbs were. I know you are familiar with a golden snitch, young seeker, and you know very well how elusive the little things can be. That was a good image to give young parents. It seemed very safe. Plus, there was the association of winning that came with comparing an Eye to a Snitch.

"In fact, the Eye flies much more like a bludger."

Harry winced with remembered pain. Being hit with a bludger hurt at the least, and if the thing had been given a whack by a skilled beater, one could knock a rider off his broom and cause very serious injury.

"Exactly," Remus nodded as he saw Harry's reaction. "Not the best thing to tell parents of young babies. But the Eye is essentially bludgery, wingless and relentless in its purpose. Fortunately, this mekanix's purpose was not to smash into anyone, but to hover around, sending signals. So when a baby smacked the Eye into the wall, the Eye returned. And got another smack. And returned again.

"Now imagine you are a parent in the room farthest away from the baby's room, and you can't see what's around you because all you can see is what you get from the Eye. And the Eye is being slammed repeatedly into the wall. Which is what you are seeing - wall smashing into your face, baby coming closer and closer, whack from the hand, back to the wall in your face, repeat. Closing your eyes didn't help, because the images from the Eye were coming to you directly from the device. People became completely lost in their own homes. They fell and were injured. They walked into their stoves or fireplaces. They smacked their noses on closed doors. And then frequently, they would see themselves, finally entering the baby's room, bruised, burnt and bloody. And some would then panic. Others became furious.

"Sometimes, things would not get that far because the Eyes would break after being batted around and smashed into solid surfaces too many times. Either way, people were - to say the least - dissatisfied with the product.

"Since you say you have little experience with babies, I will tell you this fact for free. One of the first words any person learns to say is: 'No." You probably learned to say it right after 'Mama.' I believe I did as well. Most people do. So those people whose children were a little older than infants would put the eye against their kid's skin, and the child would laugh and say 'No.' Then the parent would become angry, insist that they were going to use the Eye, and the child would cry and say 'No.' Either way, the device would not function, and the parent was stuck with what appeared to be a completely useless purchase. They, too, were dissatisfied.

"Even older children learned that they could remove the Eye from use - usually by grabbing it and saying something to the effect that they did not want this thing anywhere near them. The words weren't important. It was the intent that was, and that has led to the use of the Eye that is currently most common. It is one of the favorite objects of study of those researchers interested in the phenomenon of wandless magic. But while the principles of that phenomenon still escape our scholars, the young children - completely untrained in and inexperienced with magic - understood it immediately. They grabbed their Eyes and turned them off. Then, they would touch the devices to their own skin and say 'Yes.' That made those children the masters of their Eyes, so that the images from the Eye would not be transmitted to the parents anymore, but to the very child around which the Eye was hovering. Parents who suddenly realized that they could no longer check in on their children through the Eyes would rush to search for their offspring - only to discover the kids putting on shows for themselves, dancing or telling jokes or making silly faces, using the Eyes as a kind of camera - like a flying mirror with variable point of view. These parents, too, were ultimately dissatisfied with the product. The company went out of business, but there are still thousands of Eyes scattered throughout the wizarding world, mostly in junk drawers or boxes in attics."

"So Snape wants to put a baby monitor on me," Harry said deflatedly.

"Ummm... Have some tuna," Remus suggested, taking one of the pieces for himself.

"That's not tuna. It's red," Harry protested.

"It's not the pale stuff you get in tins," Remus smirked. "This is what tuna fishermen eat." He took about half of the first piece at a bite, and Harry worried as he noticed Remus' eyes slightly watering. If the man had not been affected by the burning heat of the cucumber roll, how hot must this thing be? "Oh... " Remus sighed. "That's perfect. That, boy, is food a true Londoner can appreciate. Try it."

Harry took a small bite, waiting to be assaulted by wasabi heat. But this was different. The rice seemed to fall away from a meaty taste that positively radiated from the small bit of tuna on his tongue. He chewed, and the food literally did melt in his mouth. Greedily, he gobbled the rest of the piece.

"Sushi meals tend to be small, and feature a few bites of intensely flavored delicacies. There is ideally a variety, so you can enjoy many different tastes. But it is not intended to be a feast like one at Hogwarts. You should never be stuffed when rising from a sushi table. The trick is to get just enough, without overdoing it." Remus finished his first piece, and nodded at the two pieces remaining. "It doesn't look like a lot. But a little of this food goes a long way."

"It's delicious, thanks," Harry said with genuine gratitude. "But... Snape wants to put a baby monitor on me."

Remus sighed. "What's more important is that I want to put a monitor on you. And the reason for that - and the reason that I brought you here - is that I do not trust Albus Dumbledore."

Harry stared. The implications of all that Remus had been saying finally sank in. "But... Dumbledore is..."

"The champion of the light?" Remus scoffed. "Voldemort's greatest enemy? The Premiere Educator of our time? Harry, some of those things - to a certain extent - may be true. But each of those ideas are things that Dumbledore has worked very hard to promote. And simple logic shows up the shortcomings in every one of those slogans. For example: Voldemort's greatest enemy. Who could that be? Who has defeated him, disembodied him, separated him from the host on which he was a parasite, destroyed his plan for the Chamber of Secrets? Who does he fear most of all? You, Harry. You are Voldemort's greatest enemy. And Dumbledore wants to make sure that you are his student, you are seen to be allied with him, you are seen as his follower, so that the good will generated by your enmity with Voldemort will rub off on him. And as far as being the Premiere Educator... Harry, with the exception of Defense Against the Dark Arts... well, that and Divination, which doesn't count, because it really can't be taught... Hogwarts has the greatest lineup of teachers of any magical school in the world. So why are we turning out such mediocre wizards?"

Harry had been swelling with pride to hear his school's faculty praised. He was totally shocked to hear Remus' last question. Still too surprised to be very angry, he protested, "My entire class passed their O.W.L.s!"

Remus was very serious as he interrupted. "First of all, your entire class did not. There will be some remedial work to be done just to reach the O.W.L. level for many of your classmates. And some few are so far behind where they should be that if they are not careful, they will run out of re-test opportunities and never be O.W.L. certified. But even ignoring those who failed for the moment... O.W.L.s simply ensure that a wizard is unlikely to shoot off his foot trying to light his kitchen stove. They are a sort of 'bare minimum' measurement intended to set a point below which people should not be trusted to use magic at all. It disturbs me that passing N.E.W.T.s is considered to be such an achievement these days. When I was in school, even the poor students were expected to pass N.E.W.T.s. It was the advanced work that separated the truly gifted wizards from the average ones. And after hearing so many of my teachers bragging about how tough it had been in the 'old days,' I did some research. In fact, a generation or two before I was in classes at Hogwarts, early N.E.W.T.s were rather common. And advanced work - beyond the N.E.W.T. level - was accepted practice for most seventh years, and quite a few sixth years! In fact, far from being the paragon of educational virtue, Dumbledore has supervised the steady decline of academic standards.

"As far as his being the champion of the light, I won't even argue the point. Except to say that the very claim is hardly more than a play on words. Voldemort is the "Dark Lord" because his followers feel that title makes him - and therefore them - more frightening. What's 'Dark' about him? He doesn't attack candle shops, or go around dispelling Lumos spells. What the 'Dark' is all about is secrecy. He and his followers are a violent minority who reasonably fear the righteous wrath of the majority of us. So they operate in the 'Dark' - that is, in secret. O.K. Now tell me the salient characteristics of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix."

Automatically, Harry's hand flew to his lips. "Shhhh."

Remus sat back, letting Harry realize what he had just done. "You see, Harry. We can talk about 'You-Know-Who' all day long - by name - and you're not bothered. 'Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort,' big deal, who cares? We can say Death Eaters, Dark Lord, and Plan to Take Over the World. Ho Hum. But if I merely mention the name of Dumbledore's secret society...."

To his own embarrassment, Harry felt himself squirming at the mere referemce to a mention of the name.

"So Dumbledore is as secretive as your greatest enemy," Remus concluded. "Which can always be explained away by the necessity of fighting fire with fire, and all of that. But there's worse. What Dumbledore has done to you in just the past week is appalling. He has alienated you from your friends, and from at least one supportive Professor."

"I'll get on with Neville," Harry said defensively.

"That's just the problem," Remus replied. "You'll 'get on' with him. Under different circumstances, you and he would have most naturally become friends. Based on the simple fact of your being the two most powerful wizards of your generation."

"Neville?" Harry yelped, ashamed at the chirp in his own voice.

"I see you are not particularly surprised that one of the most powerful wizards is you," Remus observed with a sly grin. Harry blushed, but did not contradict the assertion. "Neville may well be more powerful than you are, Harry. His sheer magical ability is off any useful scale of measurement. And you are both Gryffindors, in the same year at school... you would most likely have become formidable allies - except for this 'summer job' fiasco, engineered by Dumbledore. And Neville is only part of it. This would have been a significant summer for you to have spent some time at the Burrow."

"Why," Harry said with resentment, anticipating the next comment. "Because of Ginny?"

Remus raised an eyebrow. "Don't you like Ginny?"

"Why is everyone always asking me that!" Harry exploded.

Remus laughed. "Because she's wild and pretty, with flaming red hair, and - to an outsider's eyes - is desperately hot for you."

"Is that what you wanted when you were in school? A skinny redhead?" Harry asked, trying to regain his composure, but still annoyed. The idea of a girl being 'desperately hot' for him was pretty appealing, but he could think of several others who would be more appropriate. Cho Chang came to mind. And wouldn't leave.

"No, my desires were always a little different from those of most of my classmates," Remus said dismissively. "But when I mentioned the Burrow, I wasn't thinking of Ginny. I was thinking of Hermione. I worry about Hermione."

"You must be confused," Harry said. "It's the Weasleys that live in the Burrow."

"And it's Ronald Weasley that Hermione has been spending a lot of time with," Remus said sadly.

"So why worry about Hermione? She's the smartest one of us."

"Which is something that Ron Weasley is not," Remus said. "I know you're his friend, Harry, but I think you'd have to agree. Ron is not particularly clever."

"No, Sir," Harry said earnestly. "I do not agree. Ron is emotional. He gets angry easily. And when he's angry, he can't think. But he knows it! When he calms down, when he gets over being angry, he'll come back and say, like, 'I'm sorry, Mate. I wasn't thinking.' And it's not that he doesn't understand what he sees, he just gets all worked up. He's not as dumb as people make him out to be."

"But he is just as prejudiced, just as opinionated, and just as bullheaded. He'd probably get angry and punch me for saying it, but in that respect, he is much more like his mother than he is like his father." Remus took a sip of tea and shook his head sadly. "And I worry that, without you visiting the Burrow, Ron will have fewer opportunities to show off his most bigoted side. And Hermione will be there, visiting, and she will miss something that otherwise might have repelled her. Or maybe I'm reaching too far. But in any case, if your two best friends are involved in a romance together, they will have significantly less time for you over the next two years."

Harry grinned. "If it lasts two years. Who's to say they won't get bored with each other."

Remus did not return Harry's smile. "Hermione is a very serious-minded young woman. I'm sure she knows the difference between casual dating and a lifelong commitment, but I would bet that she would not even accept a casual date if she did not think there was some potential for a long-term relationship. With Hermione, I would guess two years might be a minimum term for dating. And Dumbledore knows this."

Harry scowled. "Where do you get all this stuff about Dumbledore, anyway?"

"A good question, Harry. A very good question, and one that you should ask of anyone making statements such as these. In my case, I have been watching Dumbledore for many years. And I have worked for him off and on for three of those years. His plans are deep, and they are subtle. The things he has the Order do reflect that very clearly." Remus thought a while, then looked Harry in the eye, as though judging whether the boy could accept what Lupin had to say. "Harry, Dumbledore's leadership of the Order proves one thing to me. Albus is as much a megalomaniac as old Tom Riddle. He doesn't want people bowing to him, or slaving to build his monuments. In that respect, he can always claim to be on the side of 'good.' But he doesn't believe in real freedom, either. I am certain that's what the lowering of academic standards is all about. What Dumbledore believes in more than anything else is this: Social Order. He believes in people behaving properly, getting on with life, cooperating and following the rules. Not just any rules, mind you. He had no compunction about freeing Sirius Black and Buckbeak the hippogriff when the Ministry wanted them executed. It's Dumbledore's rules that he wants followed. And he campaigns consistently toward that goal. He gives people opportunities they otherwise would not have. Filch is a squib. Hagrid is a half-giant..."

"And you are a werewolf," Harry challenged.

"Exactly," Remus agreed. "So when Filch talks to squibs, when Hagrid talks to half-breeds of any stripe, or when I talk to people like me, we all say 'Dumbledore is a great man.' That has served him in good stead for a long time. The word has gotten out over a period of years. People - especially people who have been marginalized because of race or magical ability - believe that Dumbledore's rules are good rules. And more, they believe that if there's a choice between Dumbledore's rules and the actual law, that Dumbledore probably has it right more often than the law does."

"So?" Harry argued fiercely. "Who would be a better choice to care for the animals than Hagrid? And I've already said you were the best Defense teacher we ever had! Dumbledore was right about those things. He gave you the chance. You're the one being racist about it! You're the one saying Dumbledore did it for himself. You didn't even wait to be fired! You quit!"

"And he offered you a dementor escort back to Privet Drive." Lupin's voice was quiet, but determined. "I'm not saying he makes bad rules. Just that he wants them followed without deviation. And preferably without question or protest. Which is the mark of a dictator."

Remus and Harry sat silently for a while, Harry resenting the attack on his Headmaster even as he was forced to admit to himself that Remus had a few good points... along with a few more really far-fetched ones. To keep from having to converse, Harry enjoyed the last of his sushi, clearing his palate with a sip of tea before taking a long drink of root beer. He sat quietly, enjoying the calm atmosphere of the tiny room before returning to a sore subject. "So, why a baby monitor?"

Remus laughed again, a sound so contagious that Harry lost his scowl and started to smile once more. "I should have told you about how the Eye was supposed to be used to watch very sick patients in hospital," he said. "There was a problem with that, too, of course. The sickest patients were unable to give their consent, and those who were well enough to agree to them usually didn't need them. So the Eyes were useless there, too."

"So why a deathbed monitor?" Harry persisted, but this time he had mischief in his voice.

"Simple. I believe Dumbledore will be aware of every move you make at Hogwarts. I believe he's aware that we're gone now, though I doubt that he could really trace us to London. If he could, I would just give up and let him be king. He'd be unstoppable, anyway, if he had that kind of omniscience. But even though he will have you under observation at Hogwarts, I am not convinced that the Headmaster will really have your best interests at heart. He wants to use you against Voldemort, I know that. I doubt that he would allow you to be killed, unless it were in a fight with the Dark Lord. But I want someone else to be able to keep watch. Someone who does care about you, personally. Here's my plan. Professor Snape puts the Eye on you, watches you for a day and finds it too distracting. Then I offer to take a shift watching through the Eye. Professor Snape gets his work done, I'm there primarily to watch you, anyway, so I have no problem with the distraction, and I keep the connection with the Eye. I do have your best interest at heart. So you are a lot safer. Any questions?"

"Yes," Harry said, his expression deadly serious. "I do have a question. A very important one. If it wasn't skinny redheads, who did you want when you were in school?" His control slipped, and though he kept himself from laughing, he could not stop the grin from taking over his face.

"That was a long time ago," Remus said with melancholy. "And as I am still single..." He shrugged eloquently. "Finish your root beer, lad, it's time we got back to the campus. Listen to me, Harry. I am quite serious. Will you accept the Magic Eye? Will you consent to be monitored while you are at Hogwarts?"

"There are a lot of things I would rather not have... uh... monitored," Harry said, wiping root beer foam off of his upper lip. "I mean, when I'm in the bathroom, or going to bed."

"When you have your pants down is when you're most likely to be attacked," Remus admonished. Then he saw the determination on Harry's face and relented a bit. "I think I know what you're talking about. I'll make you a deal. When you walk into the bathroom, you let the Eye look around. Then, you put a hood over it. A hood is a simple arrangement of black cloth. When you put it into place, the Eye will send an alarm to whoever is monitoring you, because the information it is supposed to collect is being blocked. But the hood keeps the Eye very effectively blind. When you're decent once again, pull off the hood. Same thing when you go to bed. The Eye checks your room. Then, while you're changing clothes... or whatever else you'd care to do... you hood the Eye. That sets off the alarm, but the Eye remains blind until you pull the hood back off. By which time, you'll be ready to go to sleep. Deal?"

Harry couldn't think of any good objections, and he guessed that he could always grab the Eye and turn it off the way the kids had. "O.K.," he agreed halfheartedly.

"Good," Remus said. "I think we should go visit Professor Snape right away."

"But he said not to come back until tomorrow," Harry warned.

"Even better," Remus laughed. "This'll piss him off even more, then. He might give me the Eye-monitoring duty right away, if we irritate him enough."

The idea of irritating Snape was enough to goad Harry into immediate action. He and Remus left the restaurant and headed back to the alley, looking for a spot out of muggle view from which to apparate back to Hogwarts.


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you all so much for your generous feedback! It feels great to know that you are reading and enjoying this story. I really appreciate your comments. Concerning the various characters' behavior, I hope to make their motivations clear as the story progresses. To that end, I'll be doing my best to continue posting twice per week until the story has been fully posted. The writing itself is complete - but it does take some time to format the raw text for upload… and to try to catch every one of the ever-elusive spelling errors, grammar errors, phrasing errors, etc. Even at a twice-per-week posting schedule it will take a while for the story to unfold. This is a rather lengthy tale.

Enjoy!

Chapter four

Severus Snape was concentrating intently on the operation he was attempting to perform. It was delicate, because he did not intend to waste any part of what he was working on. Carefully, slowly, he made the incisions, then with a single swift motion, peeled the entire skin off of the carcass of the tiny newt over which he was laboring. The skin joined several others in a pile to the side of his working slab. Before the night was out, he would have more than a dozen whole newt skins, as well as cleaned and separated newt hearts, tails and - perhaps most importantly - a dozen pair of newt eyes. Contemptuously, he thought of the wizards who bought entire shipments of newts, only to waste everything but the eyes. And even worse, those clumsy workers who did not harvest the eyes cleanly, and ruined the potency of what they did collect.

He had just picked up a pair of tweezers when a voice rang out, making him jump and nearly drop his newt.

"Hello, Severus! Look who ran into me on the stairs!" Remus Lupin stood in the doorway to the Potions laboratory, his hand casually resting on Harry Potter's shoulder.

"Yes," Snape drawled sarcastically. "What a surprise. The only student remaining in the entire school. I could never have guessed."

"Oh, come on, Severus," Lupin chided. "Harry's agreed to give the Magic Eye a go. Let's try it out, shall we?"

Snape closed his eyes slowly. When he opened them, the irritating intruders were still there. "I had told the boy that he could return for the Eye tomorrow, after his work for Professor Sprout."

"You certainly did. But Harry wasn't very enthusiastic about it at the time, was he?" Snape wondered once again what had happened to Lupin to change the man so. His posture, his voice, and especially his aggressive bonhomme were all completely different to the man Snape had known. Now, standing next to Harry, he looked even more transformed than he had this morning. He almost seemed to have grown larger. In the same insistently enthusiastic tone, the werewolf continued. "And if he was still going to be a big baby about it," Remus paused to send a wink Harry's way, "I would have let him wait. But he wants to try the Eye out. With the Hood, of course."

"The hood?" Snape demanded. "What are you on about?"

"You know," Remus said encouragingly. "When you open the box, it's what the Eye is packed in. Keeps it from getting scratched in transit. The cloth... you know, black, thick, heavy... the Hood!"

"A blinding hood?" Snape asked incredulously. "Mister Lupin... what earthly good could a Magic Eye do whilst covered with a blinding hood?"

"Not all the time," Remus dismissed the objection with a wave of his hand. "But at certain crucial junctures during the day. While the boy... has his pants down, you see."

"What I see," said Snape with a superior air, "Is that neither of you understands the first thing about security. A person is most likely to suffer attack precisely when - as you so delicately put it - his pants are down."

"Harry and I went over this, Severus," Lupin explained with a hint of impatience. "For example, he goes into the bathroom, the Eye checks around, the hood goes on, a little while later the hood comes off, and the Eye checks for enemies again. Easy."

"Meanwhile, I get a clanging interruption of my day every time the Eye gets covered," Snape sniffed. "I - most likely - will not be checking in with the Eye at the exact time Harry needs to relieve himself. So, when he puts the Hood over the Eye, whatever I'm doing gets interrupted by an alarm, informing me that the Eye is temporarily blind."

"I could do it," Remus said simply.

"What?" Snape looked at the werewolf with undisguised suspicion.

"What am I here for, Severus? I'm here to watch Harry. You have work to do. You can still be the authority figure. You can still give Harry his limits and curfews. You can still check in on him in person. But the Eye... that's just an irritant. As you say, an interruption for you."

Snape pressed the bridge of his nose tiredly. "I did not want this duty in the first place. If anything untoward should happen to the boy, I will certainly be blamed for laxity in carrying out my responsibilities. A hood is a dangerous interruption of the surveillance provided by the Eye..."

"Do you like watching young boys, Severus?" Remus' voice was quiet, but filled with menace.

"Certainly not!," Snape denied, his voice shifting register almost like an adolescent boy's.

"Then the hood is all right," Remus persisted.

"Oh, take the hood... take the Eye... Here! Take the whole thing. Put it on him and keep watch. And don't be lazy about it. I'll check to make sure you're keeping proper vigilance. And Potter. Don't forget. You're still due here in my office after your Herbology work tomorrow."

"Yes Sir. Thank you, Professor," Harry forced himself not to grin at the realization that it would be Remus, and not the greasy git, that was keeping an Eye on him.

"Don't thank me, you have no idea what you're in for," Snape threatened absently, but his heart wasn't in it, and Harry and Remus took their leave, both cheerfully waving goodbye.

--- --- ---

About two hours later, Remus entered the Potions laboratory once again. This time, Snape was ready, and watched the werewolf as he made his way to Severus' work table. Lupin sat on one of the tall stools, and the two men shared the quiet for a time; Remus, smiling and relaxed, Severus, sharply suspicious.

Finally, Remus broke the silence. "Thanks for letting me take the Eye, Severus. Harry accepted it pretty well. I think it'll bother him for a while, and after a few days he won't even notice it."

"As opposed to my monitoring the Eye," Snape sneered. "In which case, the boy would be jumping with nerves for the rest of the summer."

Remus smiled gently. "You are a daunting figure, Professor Snape," he said, sketching a respectful bow. "You can hardly blame the students for being somewhat in awe of you." Snape snorted and curled one lip to show what he thought of students' awe. Remus stroked his several-days-old stubble. "And I didn't realize you were gay," he said, matter-of-factly.

"Gay?" Snape repeated with an arched eyebrow and a tone of skepticism.

Remus mocked Snape's voice as it had been earlier in the evening to near perfection. "Certainly not!" He laughed quietly and added, "You might as well have said, 'Hell, Yes, I like to watch young boys!' Professor."

"Really," Snape drawled. "Wolf, there is a perfectly good reason you have never realized that I am a homosexual man. I am not."

"Oh?" Remus challenged. "You chase girls, then?"

"Hardly," Snape replied coldly. "I may well be the most completely asexual man you have ever encountered in your life."

Remus furrowed his brow, and considered Snape closely. "No one is that, Severus. Even people who swear that they are... aren't. That's why we have church men raping little boys. No one is completely asexual. No one."

Snape could not imagine continuing this conversation with anyone else. But there was something about the transformed Lupin, something that made Severus believe that Remus might understand what he was told. There was something compelling about the man, now, something Remus had never possessed in his life until this very day, so far as Snape was aware. Still, Lupin had to be reminded who he was dealing with. "Ah," Snape rose to the werewolf's challenge with one of his own. "An expert. Excellent. It is so... rare... to find a man who believes himself to be an expert on sexual matters." Snape paused long enough to let Remus acknowledge the gibe, then continued with a particularly intense stare directly into Remus' eyes. "Since you are such an expert, consider this, and consider it carefully before you deign to reply to it. When most people think of sexual satisfaction - or sexual interest, or sexual arousal, or sex in general - they think about the meat between their legs. This is true of women, of men, of transgendered individuals, and of lycanthropes. One sex or the other, changed or changeling, the response to the sexual impulse drives directly to the crotch. For me, this has never been true. Whenever I think of those sexual things, my thoughts - my feelings, more accurately - are drawn in a completely different direction. And no, I don't mean the brain," he insisted, forestalling an oncoming joke from Lupin. "Although that would be a closer guess than the pudenda. No, when I look for such satisfaction, I find it in power. The more absolute, the more satisfying. As a member of the Order of the Phoenix, you are privileged to know of my double agency. For years, now, I have worked closely with the two most powerful wizards in the known world. Both are, arguably, also the most politically powerful men in existence. The government pales in comparison to either one, and becomes nearly invisible when contrasted to them both together. I have served them, I have supported them, and I have spied upon each of them on behalf of the other. A more average man might liken the sexual satisfaction levels of my life to that of owning a house of prostitution. A boy might believe that such intensity of stimulation could only be achieved by becoming a sex show performer. Look at me, Remus. Every time I sneak off to meet the Dark Lord; every time I return here to report back to the Leader of the Light Side; I am engaging in sexual activity. Every time Voldemort forces a follower to his knees and pronounces the Cruciatus upon him; every time the Headmaster of Hogwarts thwarts official government policy; I am receiving sexual stimulation of the most direct variety. I take no interest in women mud-wrestling, or in men grappling greco-roman style. But put Dumbledore and Voldemort in a pit and let them fire on one another, and - Oh! - That would be heaven. Have I dreamed of raising a power-monger of my own? Have I seen the talent that has passed through these halls and wished that I could mold that ability to my own ends? Oh, yes. Have I wept that the sheer ability of a monster talent like that of Neville Longbottom is wasted in the Potions laboratory? Most assuredly. Have I seen the Boy Who Lived defeat Voldemort and still manage to keep himself from being crushed by Dumbledore and said: That Is My Most Perfect Tool? Oh, God help me, yes. But when I push that boy toward excellence, Mister Potter reacts like the spoiled brat his father was. When I goad him toward self improvement, he reacts as though my efforts were motivated by petty House politics or the yearly House Cup consideration. When I attempt to light a fire under him, Harry Potter pisses on the tinder and douses the flames as effectively as if Noah's Flood had washed over my efforts. I have nearly lost hope that the boy will accomplish anything in life except to face Lord Voldemort and die in the attempt to effect his petty revenge. So we keep him safe, so that he may, eventually, step up and take his turn at being killed. It is so depressing that it hardly bears thinking on." Snape lapsed into silence, but his intense gaze held Lupin's for a long while.

Finally, the werewolf spoke up. He was quite aware that expressing his opinions anywhere on Hogwarts property was dangerous, but he had felt the power of the wards around the Potions class area. He believed that if anyone at the school had an effective privacy spell in place, it would be the Potions Master. "Professor Snape," he began, deliberately avoiding the familiar use of the Potions Master's first name. "I don't think we two are as different as you might have believed. Our aims, at least, might well be nearly identical. And Harry Potter might just be the perfect point at which our ambitions come together."

The two men spoke together long into the night.

--- --- ---

"All I'm saying, Mother," Draco Black - nee Malfoy - said with a long-suffering sigh, "is that there must be some place..."

"There is this house," his mother, Narcissa, snapped.

"Yes. Yes, quite, Mother," Draco said with what he supposed anyone would have to admit was truly aristocratic forbearance. "But you see, we have been here three days, and there has not been a single invitation..."

Narcissa nearly growled. "It will take some time for the Blacks to impress themselves upon the social calendar of an unfamiliar nation."

"But Mother," Draco said with a beaming smile, "if there is any nation on the face of the earth that ought to welcome us as returning heroes, it is this one. We are in France. And we are Malfoys."

"We're Blacks!" Narcissa spat. "And you'd better get used to it."

Draco contemplated his mother carefully. The woman was clearly stressed. Having one's husband on trial for a plethora of capital crimes could well do that to a person, he supposed, but the man was his own father as well. Did this woman have no consideration of how he must feel? "Yes, Mother," he agreed placatingly. "Both sides of my family heritage have always been equally important to me. But please! If we must be 'Blacks' on official papers and for school enrollment and the like, certainly there is no reason to keep our true identity secret from society?"

Narcissa sneered. Draco reminded himself that his mother was indeed a formidable witch, and that she could hurl a curse with greater intensity than even his father, if she had the emotional motivation to do so. Right now, she seemed motivated enough to curse the entire Continent from beneath his feet. Draco resolved to keep her as calm as possible.

Too late.

Narcissa's eyes glittered with ferocity. "You... Twit!" She bellowed, but no curses followed. Draco heaved a great sigh of relief upon noticing that she had not even drawn her wand. But she was far from finished lecturing him. "You think you can go flashing the 'Malfoy' name around? Try it. Idiot! We'll both be extradited as soon as you do. We are being indulged, Draco. We are being allowed to pretend that our presence here is a secret. We are being permitted to maintain the charade that our disguise is effective. All that's keeping us safe right now is that the French hate Cornelius Fudge as much as I do."

Well... this was different. Draco checked his surroundings. Planet Earth, present time, three spatial dimensions... he occupied his own body, and thought with his own mind. Yes, he was all right. It was the rest of the world that had gone to hell. Starting with his own mother, who had never before spoken so harshly to him. Draco had seen his mother rage at his father like this on occasion, but Lucius had always maintained the upper hand. The father had given his son precious few clues as to why this might have been, but his son was smarter than Lucius had ever imagined, and Draco had figured out a lot on his own.

From what he could tell, the Malfoy nuptial agreement was little better than a slave contract. Narcissa would remain beautiful and she would produce a male heir. In return for being a sex object, a baby incubator, and a social trophy, the former Miss Black would get to live on the Malfoy estate, host their exquisite parties, and... most crucially... be on the correct side when Voldemort conquered the world. When she was married, Narcissa had apparently believed that conquest to be imminent. As the years rolled by and the ultimate victory of the Dark Lord seemed further and further away, Narcissa became distant and embittered. Lucius was never concerned. He still had his beautiful trophy wife, and - apparently - absolute power over her. She could complain, but she could never do anything about her situation. So when she did blow up at Lucius, she raged with abandon, in a truly disturbing fury.

But she had never - ever - spoken harshly to Draco.

Draco was many things to Narcissa. He was her work of art, and her compliance with the terms of her marriage contract. He was the perfect son: magically talented, as arrogant as his father, and possessed of a truly exquisite sense of style. Plus, he was beautiful. Ultra-fine platinum hair over perfect features, carried on a body fit enough to make him Seeker on his House quiddich team. She was very happy to have him. And Draco was quite aware of just how she felt, and he took advantage of it every chance he had.

But now, she was being extremely unreasonable.

"Mother, really, is it so much to ask that we attend a few parties? Without a decent social contact, I'll miss the entire Xenophon Season." 'There,' thought Draco with some satisfaction. 'That should bring her around.' Xenophon Coursing was the genteel sport of the upper class. It didn't have the broad appeal or massive fan base of quiddich, but that was to be expected - only the very rich participated in Xenophon. With its flying hedges and mid-air water streams; its fierce competition among the best riders with the finest brooms; its blinding speed and miles-long courses, Xenophon was dangerous, exciting, and exquisitely beautiful to watch. As a quiddich Seeker, Draco had the moves to compete, and mounted on his Nimbus Two Thousand, he might even have a slight edge in maneuverability over the rest of the field, who would most likely be riding Firebolts for their advantage in sheer speed. The Season was an important event for a young aristocrat to be seen participating in, and this year's Season was about to begin. Obviously, he would need an invitation. And only a member of one of the exclusive Xenophon Clubs could issue such an invitation. So attending parties was a necessity.

Draco was so certain that he had made an air-tight case for his request that he was completely baffled by his mother's reply. "Do you want to be arrested for International Flight To Avoid Prosecution? You'd be giving Fudge a perfect excuse to hold you in jail until he could find something real to charge you with. If you really must fly, you can practice your coursing on the very grounds at which the Nationals are held. You could go Thursday."

Draco was incensed. Thursdays were the days the course was open to the public. Any rabble with a broom could fly around and pretend they were competing - without the hazards operational, of course. "On an inactive course?" Draco shouted. "What are we, peasants? Are we reduced to going out for public Thursdays? How am I to meet anyone of quality while flitting about with the Thursday gawkers? And what am I to do..."

"You can start by unpacking your things!" Narcissa commanded, her strong, carrying voice easily overriding Draco's petulant shout.

"Bah," Draco spat. "That's house-elf work."

"We. Have. No. House. ELVES!" Narcissa glared at Draco and he wondered what had changed the woman so drastically so quickly. It couldn't possibly be his father's arrest, could it? Narcissa must have lived with the realization that Lucius could be arrested at any time for many years. At no time during any of those years had his mother ever shown Draco an expression like the one she wore now. This glare was worrisome. Not only was it uncompromising, it was downright dangerous. Such a glare implied that, if Draco were to act on his own to take advantage of his rightful privileges as a Malfoy, Narcissa might do something drastic to protect herself. He didn't believe that she would actually kill him. But... confine him? Cast Petrificus Totalis and store him in a crate? Transfigure him into a toad and keep him in a terrarium? Yes... those things and more were in that glare. Immediate appeasement was called for.

"Of course, Mother. I had forgotten. So used to the little buggers getting underfoot, you know. Here, I'll go put some things away. Once we get the house a little more settled, we'll both feel better." 'And we can get about the business of finding some social contacts,' Draco fumed silently. 'This isolation is ridiculous.'

Draco worked hard over the next day and a half to arrange as many of his things as possible. As he did so, he developed a certain appreciation for the amount of sheer labor that was the usual lot of a Malfoy house elf - labor he had taken for granted for years. He immediately resolved that, as soon as it could possibly be arranged, he would have house elves again, and would never, ever, be without them any more. This drudgery was beneath him. And worse, he had no one to kick when it became frustrating.

Keeping busy also helped him steer clear of his mother as she worked to make the house presentable. With no house elves, no servants, and none of the ancient comforts of Malfoy Manor, Narcissa was laboring under tremendous disadvantages - and that did not improve her stormy mood one bit. She did seem satisfied that Draco was working as well, and so the boy kept at it, and a tenuous peace was maintained around the house.

--- --- ---

Narcissa complimented him on his improvisation of a coursing outfit, and actually looked relieved that he was going out as she had suggested. Draco kissed her, assured her that he would both be careful and have fun (an impossible contradiction to the boy, but he wasn't about to tell his mother that) and walked out of the door, broom-twigs proudly held high.

Once out of sight of the front door, Draco let his put-on jauntiness slip away. He really hadn't planned on going to the course. That was simply an excuse to get out of the house. He had intended to wander through his new neighborhood and find some kind of adventure. But he soon learned that what he had always claimed as a flawless sense of direction had really been nothing more than an intimate familiarity with the area surrounding his home. He had not travelled more than three blocks from his new front door before he was lost. Every time he found a landmark and believed himself to be travelling in the direction he had intended, his steps would betray him and he would once again be wandering, baffled by his surroundings. In the end, he decided to go to the Nationals course. He did know how to get there. (He had carefully checked the route on a map that his mother had brought along when they moved into their new home.) And after his frustrating walk, he really did feel like riding again.

At least he had one advantage in wandering around the streets in this improvised getup, he thought sourly. He had no worries that any muggles would take note of him carrying a flying broom around town. Unlike a real Club outfit, which looked quite dashing, his duster and gloves made him look like a chimney sweep, or some other menial cleaning drone. Decent people would simply not notice him at all, and the rabble would avert their eyes. Brilliant. First, he had to suffer a disguise that stripped him of his family name, and now he hid from muggles by posing as scum. He walked to the course with his scowl etched deeply into his features.

Once he arrived at the course, his mood lightened somewhat. It was situated on the edge of town, so that the flying field could extend over the countryside, allowing long straightaways that encouraged the blistering speed the Nationals were famous for. The course was made somewhat more spectator-friendly than the traditional courses of old by having the route switch back on itself several times, passing close to the grandstand more than once, and allowing the crowd at least some view of what was happening in the competition. The entrance, usually locked and warded, was open today. But no one who didn't know where it was would have found it. Like the platform nine and three quarters at which the Hogwarts Express stopped for passengers, the entrance was accessed by walking directly through a very solid-looking hedge, which appeared to be surrounded by a very ordinary-looking chain-link fence. Draco counted the chain-link panels to be sure of his mark, then walked confidently right into the apparent barrier. He appeared on the far side and stood unmoving for a long while, admiring the course before him.

The grass was deep and dark green. The hedges - now safely motionless on the ground - grew in lush profusion. The complex water cannons that created the mid-air streams were idle, but their antique intricacy was beautiful. The grandstands stood proudly, the flagpoles free of pennants with no competition underway. The structure seemed somehow expectant, as though looking forward to the next contest to be held before it. The entire course appeared to be bespelled, as though put to sleep, awaiting the arrival of the next true champion, which would be Draco himself, of course.

That illusion lasted nearly two seconds, after which Draco could see flyers streaking his way on old brooms that would have looked more at home cleaning a kitchen floor than flying over one of the most prestigious courses in the world. The kids piloting the shabby sticks had not even tried to wear proper clothing. One wore muggle jeans, and another was actually wearing a Beauxbatons robe. Both were younger than Draco, and showed their respect for his age by turning and flying off, completely ignoring him. Draco waited for the pair to disappear around a turn, then mounted his Nimbus and kicked off.

No matter where it was, flying was something that was always immediately satisfying. Here, over the beautiful landscape of the Nationals course, it was heavenly. Draco spotted several other flyers, who were probably just learning to handle a broom. They were following the course pattern carefully, none of them taking any chances, all going rather slowly. Draco resolved to keep his distance from all of them, and began buzzing the ground in power dives, charging the motionless hedges only to pull up just before crashing. He circled a pair of the antique water cannons, knowing that if they had been operational, such a maneuver would have been impossible. He was concentrating on his flying so intently that he was taken completely by surprise when someone called out to him - in English.

"Hoy, English boy! Is a Nimbus the best you can do?"

Draco looked to see who had called. She was riding a Firebolt that bore the scars of crashes that - if she had actually ridden through them - must have been extremely painful. Her outfit was not up to appearing in a Club match, but it was authentic, and would have been completely acceptable at any Club-supported practice. Every piece of equipment was very worn, as though this girl were a truly serious rider - serious enough to ride even on a public day. Her long blonde hair streamed out behind her as she effortlessly matched Draco's speed with her Firebolt. Not willing to be outdone in any matter involving sophistication, Draco replied in French. "Why do you call me 'English?' Do I sit my broom like a foreigner?" 

The girl laughed out loud. "Ugh! Your accent is atrocious. You sound like an Algerian rent-boy."

Draco continued in French. "Not everyone from Algiers is a rent-boy." 

"No," the Firebolt-rider agreed. "Only those who speak with your accent. But I know you are English. You are Draco Malfoy!"

Draco's heart pounded. He couldn't breathe. His hands became sweaty on the broomstick. It was one thing to demand that his mother find a way for him to enjoy the privileges of being a Malfoy. It was quite another to be caught by surprise while riding his broom on a public day at the course. "Who told you?" he demanded, switching back to English in his panic.

The girl laughed again. "You do not have enough self-confidence, Draco Malfoy. No girl who has seen anyone so impressive will soon forget him. I would hope that you would remember me, too, yes?"

Draco was completely flummoxed. An experienced competition broom-rider? He would not have forgotten her if he had met her while flying. But who could she be? "Oh... ah... um..." he fumbled.

"I understand," she said, saving him from his awkward stuttering. "When I was at your school with Madame Maxime, I was overshadowed. You would recognize the girl... my classmate... who competed for the Tri-Wizard Cup, against your exquisite Cedric Diggory."

Draco was stumped again. As soon as 'Tri-Wizard' had come out of the girl's mouth, he had thought of a half-dozen insults to apply to Harry Potter. But it was not Potter of which the girl was thinking. He really shouldn't have been surprised. It was no secret that most of the girls at Hogwarts had found Diggory appealing, so it was only natural that the French visitors had as well. "Oh, well, Cedric... you know..." He fell silent, trying to think of whether this girl knew that Diggory was dead - and whether he was supposed to know.

The girl saved him again. "It was a great loss," she said sadly. "Every girl... and, I imagine, every woman in attendance felt the tragedy deep in her... in her... what do you call it?"

Draco flushed scarlet. What should he say? 'Vagina' was too clinical. Would she even understand 'pussy?' Or would she be offended by 'cunt' or 'twat?'

"...Heart! That is it. In her heart. My condolences on the loss of your countryman," the girl said, but the look in her eyes told Draco that she had deliberately been playing with him. He decided that he liked this girl.

"Well, you know, Cedric wasn't exactly..." Draco forced himself to shut up once again. Had he forgotten everything he knew about talking to girls? If she fancied Cedric, it wouldn't do to go speaking ill of him. And it wasn't like he would be anyone's rival, now that he was dead.

"You don't have to be great friends to feel the loss when a companion dies," the girl said, saving Draco from embarrassment once again. "Believe me, I know."

Draco's ears perked up at that. A mysterious tragedy? He wanted to know more. "What do you say we land and get something for lunch. I'd be interested to see what you're riding. I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

The girl smiled and nodded, but then called out, "Let's do some flying first. I have barely started my workout today!" She goaded her Firebolt into a burst of acceleration, and dashed down the straightaway, her toes dangling mere inches from the grass.

Draco leaned forward in pursuit and the mysterious flyer dragged him around the course for more than an hour, always a few broomstick lengths ahead of her pursuer. They flew under tree branches, in tight turns around the flagpoles, and through slaloms between the course boundary markers. By the time they landed, Draco was breathless, his eyes glittering with excitement.

"You're brilliant!" He exclaimed as he dug his heels into the grass, letting his broomstick twist its way from beneath him and into an upright position by his side. "Do you play for the local Club?"

"Club." the girl stated with flat contempt.

"I'm sorry," Draco offered, hoping for some explanation of her reaction.

"As am I," she said. "I am not a member of the Club, I will never be a member of the Club. But yes, I do RIDE for them - please, Draco, don't say 'play' around a competition rider. You'll be in a fight faster than you know. I ride for them because I am fast, and accurate, and have a good feel for the hazards... I am, as you say, 'brilliant.' So I am allowed to mount my broom for their greater glory. So long as I am off the grounds as soon as I have collected the trophy - and turned it over to my Club sponsors. So, I do not care for them, personally. But I love to ride, so..." She shrugged. Draco could have watched that particular motion over and over again. The girl was slender, but with enough curves that a shrug made many wonderful things happen.

At the same time, Draco was quite annoyed. He had met an attractive girl who was also a brilliant rider, and she was socially unacceptable. This was precisely what he had not wanted. She said she was not a Club member and never would be. That was pretty strong. What kind of family did she come from? Common laborer? Squib-muggle couple? He shuddered. Just his luck to be discovered by a mudblood his first day out.

"So, why are you in France, Draco Malfoy?" She asked, unaware of his misgivings.

"It's rather secret," he said quietly. "Undercover stuff. Really can't talk about it."

"That is ridiculous," she replied immediately. "Why would anyone choose you for anything secret? You stand out like a beautiful portrait in a gallery of poorly taken snapshots."

Draco was very flattered. He knew he was a good looking young man, but the girl's simile had been particularly pleasant to hear. "It can't help to have someone shouting my name," he cautioned. "If you must use my last name, call me Draco Black."

The girl laughed. "You are the most... not-black person I have ever seen. Draco Albino would be more close, yes?"

"But I am going by Draco Black," he insisted.

"If you wish," she conceded with another shrug that made Draco's pupils dilate and his heart rate increase. "But there are at least eleven other girls at Beauxbatons who know that you are Draco Malfoy."

"In that respect, you all have the advantage of me. Who are you?"

The girl leaned back and fixed him with a calculating stare. "It's about time," she scolded. "I thought you were going to let me call you by name all day without asking for mine. I am Artemis. Artemis Themyscira."

Draco clenched his teeth to hold back his automatic response, which would have been, "Oh. A nobody." For that was truly what this young woman was. As skilled a rider as she may have been, she was not anywhere near his social level. 'Themyscira?' Greek? And not one of the important Greek families, either. A nobody. What a pity. Still, he had suggested lunch. It would only be polite to make good on his offer. "Do you want to get something to eat?"

His delivery must have given him away. Artemis studied him for a moment, then crisply reported, "I weighed in at just over fifty-two kilos today. I can afford to gain or lose only one kilo either way. I had better stick to my training diet. Today, lettuce with vinegar. Precisely measured amounts. Have a good day, Draco Black. Welcome to France." She kicked off and was gone before Draco could say a word.

The young Mister 'Black' walked home feeling alternately elated and bitter. He had met a beautiful woman, who was also a great flyer. But she was a nobody, essentially a jockey for the local Club, her sponsor. He had enjoyed a fantastic couple of hours of flying over a beautiful field - half of it with a girl who flew that course in competition. But contact with the Club on a social level was still far out of his reach. Artemis had not seemed to care that he was a Malfoy - she certainly did not seem ready to make any effort to turn him in to the authorities. But who knew how many people she might speak with, and to whom she might mention his name. The difficult decision remained. Should he tell his mother he had been recognized? If he did, she might be furious. But if he did not - and both he and Narcissa were arrested - who knew what she might do? He would have to tell her. Damn. And this had started out to be such a good day.

When Draco let himself in through his new home's front door, he saw some signs that gave him hope that the coming admission would not go quite so horribly as he feared. The living room furniture had been arranged, and the boxes in which the delicate items had been packed were gone. Looking through the open archway into the dining area, he could see that a great deal of progress had been made in there, as well. Perhaps Narcissa would be feeling good enough about having a well-ordered home in which to relax that her reaction to his news might be non-violent. Draco fervently hoped so.

He found his mother standing in the kitchen, staring hopelessly at her extensive collection of fine-quality cookware, all gleaming clean and ready to be used. Narcissa had served meals - or rather served as the hostess at meals - for everyone from entertainers to government officials to old-money aristocracy. So far as Draco knew, she had never actually cooked a meal in her life - or at least the last twelve years of it that he could remember. There were always house elves, servants, caterers... a plethora of little people who took care of all of the fiddling around with fire under foodstuffs. Draco had never cooked anything, either, so to him, all of the gleaming kitchen utensils were shiny enigmas.

"What would you like for dinner tonight?" Narcissa asked absently, removing a broad frying pan from its hanger high on the wall near the stove. She gripped the insulated handle of the utensil as if it were a tennis racquet, and took several slow practice swings above the burners.

"I don't know," Draco replied with forced good humor, staring at his mother in confusion. "What do we have?"

"Have...?" Narcissa had not looked at Draco once since he had returned. She waved the frying pan back and forth in front of her face, watching her reflection in the wide, shining frying surface.

"Pans won't cook anything if we don't put something in them. What's on the shelf?" His easy bantering tone totally belied the panic that was building within the boy. His mother had apparently gone completely mental, and without her, he was all alone in a foreign country, supposedly in hiding, without a single clue as to what he could do if Narcissa were actually insane.

"I knew that," Narcissa said sadly, putting the pan down on the edge of a counter, where it teetered, about to fall off. "At one time..." She turned toward her son and began to cry, great wracking sobs. "What happened to me, Draco? When did my life turn to shit?"

Totally shaken, Draco did what he usually avoided. He told the truth as he saw it. "I believe that would be when Voldemort dropped the ball and failed to take over the..." Draco fell silent momentarily, wondering how much to failure to attribute to the Dark Lord. Voldemort had certainly failed to take over the world. But for that matter, he had failed to take over the UK, the country, or even a small city block. "When he failed to take over… well, anything, actually."

Narcissa, tears still streaming down her face, stopped sobbing with disturbing suddenness and turned a sentimental, motherly smile on her son. The combination was so incongruous that Draco was horrified. "Voldemort," Narcissa said in a reminiscing tone. "Do you have any idea what an asshole he is?"

Draco had many stock answers to this and other, similar, comments. But in the past, he had only heard such statements from children, mostly those afraid of how difficult or dangerous life in the Dark Lord's service might be. To hear his mother ask, so casually and so full of the certainty born of long experience, if her son knew what an asshole Voldemort was... he had no idea how to respond. He stared as his mother's eyes grew unfocused once again and she began to sway slightly where she stood, as though listening to music only she could hear.

Draco considered himself a sophisticated young wizard. He knew how to read a wine list, and if he had been at his real home in England, could even show a visitor where the absinthe was kept. He had learned his magic well, despite a tendency toward laziness. And his innate sense of style insured that he nearly always looked good enough to be accepted in high society.

But Draco had nearly no knowledge of muggle vices. His cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, were somewhat more knowledgeable in that area. They could recognize marijuana, and had both sniffed cocaine before they were thirteen years old. But neither Draco, nor any of his friends, knew anything about laudanum, and none of them had ever suspected that Narcissa had been taking it, off and on, for many years. Standing in the kitchen, feeling frightened and alone, Draco suspected that his mother was drunk. He wondered if he should make coffee, and whether that would help his mother to sober up, or simply make her sick. In fact, the level of opiates in Narcissa's system made sleep - and the unearthly dreams that laudanum brought - the only recourse for her. But she was not yet ready to surrender to slumber just yet. And so she stood, and swayed, and stared into space, only aware that her son was present when he spoke to her.

Draco gave up on the idea of making coffee, thinking that dinner might be what his mother really needed. She had been trying to make something, had asked what he wanted. Desperately, he tried to remember what was available. "Mother. I'm going to go down the street to that place where we got the muggle-style Chinese take-away our first night here. I'll get us something to eat. Why don't you just relax. Sit down and rest until I get back?"

Narcissa laughed quietly, her voice deep and honey-rich. "You have no muggle money, sonny," she sang, mostly to herself. Draco was near panicking, but she paid him no mind. "You're not hungry anyway, I can tell. You don't have to feed me. All I need is a good, long sleep. A good, long sleep with dreams. Good night..." she giggled, covering her mouth girlishly. "...sweet prince. I'm going to shuffle this mortal coil off to bed. Have fun... son." Laughing low in her throat, she turned and slowly walked to her room, swaying her hips in an exaggerated seductive movement. At the door, she stopped and looked back over her shoulder, meeting Draco's eyes through her lowered lashes. "You were always cuter than Lucius, from the day you were born," she purred. "And my, my... did you ever grow up fine." She held his eyes for another long moment, then disappeared into her bedroom, quietly closing the door with a soft 'click.'

Draco stood for a long time, unmoving, his mouth wide open, his eyes unblinking, staring in shock.

--- --- ---

Usually, when Gregory Goyle spoke through the floo, he sat leaning forward, face close to the flames. It was easy to tell when he had been on the floo for a long time, because his face became hot and flushed. But when Chaz Thrasher told him his bit of news, Gregory sat back on his heels, astounded at how - sometimes - things simply fell into one's lap.

Greg had been calling his list of friends, filling them in on the Vince Crabbe story, and recruiting help for his plan to thwart Vincent's ultimate triumph over them all. Vincent had met with Voldemort, and had been tasked with convincing the Boy Who Lived to join with the Death Eaters in their efforts to conquer Britain. A ridiculous assignment, on the face of it, until Crabbe explained that he was authorized to offer Harry Potter tremendous power in return for siding with the Dark Lord. If Crabbe succeeded, he would outrank every other follower Voldemort led. And since all of Goyle's friends were planning on becoming Death Eaters - and all of them were quite aware of just how dim Vincent Crabbe actually was - this possibility was a major concern.

Confronting Crabbe was completely out of the question. Ideally, Goyle and his friends would thwart Vince's plan without his ever knowing about it. This had two major advantages. First, while he remained ignorant, Vincent would continue to supply Goyle with details of his progress toward recruiting Potter. Second, if he knew nothing about Goyle's program to sabotage his efforts, he could tell Voldemort nothing in that regard. If the Dark Lord suspected that his potential followers were actually working to prevent his instructions from being carried out, the consequences could be painful - or fatal.

So the focus had to shift to Harry Potter himself. Before speaking with Chaz, Gregory had believed that merely finding their target would be the most difficult part of the operation. By contrast, Greg believed that Vincent had probably been given pretty specific instructions on how to locate and approach Potter. Considering Crabbe's inability to improvise in difficult situations, those instructions must have been very detailed, indeed. And if Greg and his saboteurs were to wait until the start of the next school term in order to find the Boy Who Lived, Vince could well have completed his assignment, Potter would be a Death Eater before school resumed in the fall, and the whole plan would come to nothing.

With this in mind, Goyle had chosen his accomplices carefully. He wanted people who could fight. If it came down to that, Potter's head on a stick would be some kind of victory, and might please the Dark Lord nearly as much as having the twit join the program. So good fighters who wouldn't be afraid to take the chance of getting away with murder were required. He would prefer to employ people who hated Harry Potter. That was really no problem, since the big-headed Gryffindor also had a big mouth, and had offended almost everyone at least once. Hell, even his friends spent half their time arguing with him. But the more intense the hatred, the better. He also wanted people who could keep their mouths shut, no matter what they had to hide. If it were murder, the stakes were life and death. He had no intention of going to Azkaban for this, nor of facing execution. So he needed people who could do the job and then neither squeal - few of his friends were squealers, so he felt confident about that - nor brag. There was the hard part. Killing someone was a natural goad toward braggadocio; killing a Gryffindor would be considered a particularly jaunty feather in any Slytherin's cap; and killing the famous, self-important, Dumbledore-coddled Boy Who Lived would inspire most people Goyle knew and liked to shout the accomplishment from the rooftops. Equally important, the group had to keep quiet even if they merely scuttled Crabbe's little plan. Gregory had no desire to infuriate the most dangerous wizard in the world, and if one of Goyle's group let Vincent know that they had frustrated his attempts, the stakes would be cruciatus at the least - and possibly mutilation and/or death to boot. Even if the Dark Lord's punishment was not immediately carried out by a Death Eater hit squad, Greg could forget about his plan to be on Voldemort's side when the Dark wizard took the current government down - and that was a party Goyle did not intend to miss. There was a third possibility, with a very slim chance of success - but if Gregory could pull it off, he would be sitting prettier than Crabbe now planned to be. And this strategy demanded secrecy as much or more than did the first two. If Greg could convince Potter to join the Death Eaters with Goyle as his sponsor, rather than Vincent - then it would be Goyle who led the new generation of the Dark Army, and Crabbe would be the one taking orders from him. This was the most delicate, and easily disrupted, of the plans. Especially since Greg would have to count on his father to make the connection to Voldemort when Harry Potter was ready to be delivered.

So the group he chose would have to be small, discreet, powerful, able to react quickly, think on their feet and follow his lead. Chaz Thrasher and Boyd Reimuth were good weapons to have along, since both were physically tough and magically dangerous. And he believed that both could keep a secret. Jordan Lurker would be the last of the group, mostly because Jordan was the least talkative individual Goyle had ever seen. A long conversation with Jordan might include two or three words on his part for every hundred spoken to him. He didn't miss much, whether in class or in the common room, but what he learned, he kept to himself. That made him a natural for this kind of operation.

So Greg had flicked some Floo Powder and captured the interest of Boyd and Jordan. Then he contacted Chaz.

Thrasher nearly laughed out loud when Goyle laid out his problem. "Potter?" Chaz chortled. "He's at school!"

Gregory patiently explained again. "I know he goes to our school, you dunce. You can't miss him. The thing is, we've got to get him before Vince does - and that means this summer."

"Pardon me for breaking the news to you, Greg... But if you want Potter this summer, Hogwarts is where you must go." In response to Goyle's baffled look, Thrasher went on. "I was talking to Violet, who was talking to Millie, who had been talking to that Parkinson cunt, who had been to a formal tea with her mother at the Longbottom place."

"Wait, wait, wait," Goyle raised his hands and shook his head, demanding a break. "First off, how is it you were talking to Violet?"

Chaz looked at him pityingly. "I was trying to get laid, wasn't I? And she didn't show that much interest in the prospect, did she?"

"I don't know. Did she?" Greg shot back, resenting being sneered at by Chaz.

"If she had, would I be sitting here talking to you?" Chaz blurted out in anger. "The point is that the Longbottom boy was sloping around the edges of the ladies' tea, and he was all pissed off because Harry Potter had got his summer job spreading bullshit on the Hogwarts flowers for Sprout."

"Now, hold on," Greg said more calmly, trying to take charge of the conversation once more. "This information is, what? Fourth hand?"

Chaz' ironic smile was nearly as irritating to Greg as his sneering had been. "Fourth hand... through girls. I'm not sure you've noticed, Gregory, but girls are different from you and I. For a perfect example: you are calling me because Vincent Crabbe presents a palpable danger to the remainder of our young lives. Girls call each other and talk about tea parties just because they're bloody tea parties, and parties and the like are how girls get their part of the world's business done. I don't pretend to understand it, but I have seen it in action, and I can swear to the truth. If Violet says Millie says Pansy says Neville was pissed because Harry bleeding Potter is spreading bullshit at Hogwarts, my money is on Potter and the bullshit to be in the same place at the same time."

Greg was thunderstruck. "He's ... like ... staying there?"

"Summer job, sport. Work every day, sleep every night. Right at our familiar old alma mater. Outdoor work, too, so he won't be inside the walls all the time. Out to the garden every morning, back from the garden every night. Outside - or, at most in a greenhouse - all bloody day long."

A sudden thought hit Gregory like a punch. If bloody Chaz knew this... not to mention all those girls... then Voldemort must have had it in mind when he told Vince to recruit Potter. He probably told Crabbe to go to the campus and start to work on the boy. And that meant... "Chaz, Vince is going to beat us to him. We've got to go to Hogwarts. Tomorrow." Chaz nodded his consent with a vicious smile. Of the plans they had discussed, Thrasher clearly favored the one that would hurt Potter the most. Greg had a big problem in logistics, though. "How can we get there? The train doesn't run, except twice a year. Can you get a car?"

"No," Chaz said, wrinkling his nose at the thought. "Last time I... uh... borrowed my mum's car, it came back with... some significant damage." He briefly related the story, which seemed funny now that the punishments resulting from the escapade were over. Both boys were in a better mood after laughing about it for a while. "What I can do," Chaz suggested hesitantly, "is ask my brother."

"You've got a brother? What, was he in school?"

"Naw," Chaz admitted. "Dropped out near end of second term. Not that it made any difference - he would have been expelled anyway. Cursed a teacher, broke a bunch of stuff. Filch hates him. Gave me Hell from the moment I stepped on to school grounds because of him."

"Sounds like he had the Slytherin touch," Greg said proudly.

"Yah, 'cept that he was sorted into Hufflepuff," Chaz admitted bashfully. "My old Da was furious about it - threatened to tear the Sorting Hat a new head-hole, but... what're you gonna do? Less than two years and" He snapped his fingers. "He's outta there."

"Does he use magic?" Greg asked skeptically.

"Oh, yeah. Not that anyone notices most of the time. He works for a muggle organization. Collects late loan payments and that kind of thing. Says he meets a lot of gamblers in his line of work."

"And he has a car?" Greg prompted.

"Oh, Hell, no, mate. He apparates!"

"Reliably?" Greg had no desire to be the victim of a botched apparation. Every year, Hogwarts gave a safety seminar about the dangers of unauthorized apparation. The pictures of bodies with feet where their heads should be, or with their right and left halves separated by several meters, had made a strong impression on him.

"He hasn't had a car these past two years, already," Chaz boasted. "Doesn't slow him down any. He's always at the job, wherever that happens to be. And if his mates at work ask how he got there, he tells 'em 'I walked.' That twists their little minds. None of 'em can figure out how he does it. But he does. Reliably."

"There's four of us with you, me, Boyd and Jordan," Greg warned.

"So he makes it two trips. Shouldn't be that tough."

"Can he do it tomorrow?"

"I said I'd ask," Chaz said, irritated. "He might tell me to bugger off. Hell, he might hit me for presuming. Or, he might do it. Maybe tomorrow. I can ask him tonight.

"Yeah, good. You do that. I'll call Reimuth and Lurker and tell 'em to get ready for a possible journey... possibly tomorrow."

--- --- ---

The next morning dawned bright and clear. Of course, none of the conspirators saw that, since they had all slept in. But by mid-morning, Chaz had given the signal that his brother was available, and an hour or so past noon, the four would-be Death Eaters gathered at the Thrasher home.

Unlike Goyle's house, or Reimuth's, or Lurker's, the Thrashers' residence had that amazing modern convenience, a garage. As was true of most garages, this one was not home to the family's cars, but served as a storage shed, tool box and occasional work area. It was also a brilliant location from which to apparate, since it hid the apparating wizard from sight, and helped muffle the sound. The conspirators gathered there.

Each of the four had brought his broom, since if it came to a fight, air superiority would be a huge advantage. They all had their wands, as well. And they had worn their school robes, so that if they were spotted on campus, they would not look out of place. Goyle surveyed his group with approval. Big guys. Tough guys. Guys who could throw a curse as well as a punch. He was proud of this bunch, and he thought that they were proud to be doing this together. Once they joined the Dark Lord, they would be doing things like this all the time. But for now, this was a perfect warm-up, a perfect appetizer for what was to come.

The garage suddenly shook as the door connecting it to the house was flung open hard. The door hit the garage wall with a sharp report and rebounded to slam itself shut. By that time, the last arrival had moved through the doorway and into the small circle of conspirators. Boz Thrasher had arrived.

One of the reasons Greg had chosen Chaz was that the boy was two meters tall and weighed about one hundred fifteen kilos, most of it solid muscle. Next to his brother, Chaz was a pipsqueak. Boz was big, just slightly shorter and very slightly less hairy than the Hogwarts game keeper, Rubeus Hagrid. He wore a canvas workshirt, sleeves rolled above the elbows, and cotton twill workpants. Both garments were stained with grease. His hair was long, tangled and filthy. Beard covered most of his face, leaving a small mask of skin visible around his eyes.

"Well?" Boz roared. "I thought you wanned me to do summat for ye!"

"Yes, we did," Gregory spoke up, trying to establish that he was the leader of this expedition. "I wanted you to apparate us to Hogwarts."

"Bollocks!" Boz bellowed. "I'll not gae t'thet plaece ivver igin! Take ye t'Hogsmeade, thass's close as I'll gae."

"Right, then. Hogsmeade. We'll take brooms from there," Greg agreed pleasantly.

"Whar, ye flie roun' tha quiddich pitch o' yarn?" Boz sneered.

"Maybe, if there's time," Greg said offhandedly.

Too late, Chaz added, "Boz is particularly fond of association football."

"Fitbah!" Boz hollered, raising both fists into the air. "Gawd's honest fitbah, no yer nancy flittin' about on brooms, searchin' fer snitch. Fitbah!"

"Do you play?" Greg asked pleasantly, trying to draw some sort of camaraderie from the man.

"Boz plays Rugby," Chaz explained.

"Ruggerrrr..." Boz nearly purred. "Awrigh, then," he bellowed, his brief pause for quiet reflection clearly over. "Two at' time. Step up!" He grabbed Chaz and Greg simultaneously, each boy caught in a bone-crushing single-armed hug. "Hogsmeade!" He thundered, then apparated. Boyd and Jordan looked at each other and shook their heads. This was not quite what they had expected.

Once Chaz and Greg were on the ground outside of Hogsmeade, and Boz had disappeared again, on his way back to the Thrasher's garage to collect Reimuth and Lurker, Greg turned to Chaz with a disbelieving expression and demanded, "Where in hell did he live after he dropped out of school? The bleeding Hebrides? Mordred's Ghost, Chaz, I can barely understand him. And that whole 'Fitbah!' thing - the man's mental!"

Chaz shrugged. "He thinks the same about us and quiddich. It's all what you're used to, I guess. Actually, my old Da talks pretty much the same way that Boz does. I never thought about it, much."

Right then, a sharp crack announced the reappearance of their apparator, with the remaining two conspirators being crushed in his powerful grip. He dropped them both and they stumbled forward, trying to avoid falling on their faces. The four conspirators gathered together and checked to make sure they all still had their brooms and wands.

Greg turned to Boz and sketched a loose salute. "Thanks, mate. We'll get this done and be back soon. You going to wait?"

"I'll be inna Three Broomsticks," Boz growled. "And I'll take ya back home when I'm damn good and ready. There's just one thing I want all four of you to know... You owe me." As he had spoken, Boz's accent had become more and more like standard Hogwarts English. The last three words might have been delivered from a class lectern. As he continued, his words were perfectly clear enough that each one of the four boys before him understood every one. "Lissen, then. If I need a galleon, you'll be giving me one. If I need summat fetched from down Looton, one of you'll hump onto your broomstick and go get it for me. If my willie dries out, the lot of you'll queue up for the opportunity to put some spit on it."

Boyd and Jordan were looking particularly unwilling to go along with the plan as laid out by Boz. Greg worried that they'd mount their brooms and fly off if he didn't salvage something from this situation. "Why don't we just say we're friends," Goyle suggested. "And friends do for friends, right?"

Boz turned on him with an expression of horrified disbelief. "You're nae friends o' mine!" he yelled, outraged. "You're pathetic wankers couldn't get yerselves to where ye were s'posed tae be! I saved yer wanky arsses, and dint e'en charge ye a sickle fer th' job. Nor did ye offer, mind ye! And now, ye have the choice of sayin' - 'Yes, we owe you, Boz' - and gettin' yer instant trip back home sometime tonight, or makin' some bullshite argument and havin' tae get yerselves back home on yer nancy brooms! Ye want to be home sometime this month, then by Gawd, you owe me. Yer gonna give me some shite, ye'll be bustin' broomsticks over land fer the next three weeks!"

For Greg, this was a disaster. Not just for the obvious reason - that the man who was supposed to apparate them home was completely mental - but also because he knew that somehow, he had to come out of this whole thing as the leader of the group. Screwing up his courage, he smiled at the bellowing madman. "Boz, I know you don't believe me, but the fact is... I really do want to be your friend. Someday, once you've learned to trust me. And so I'm telling you. I owe you. This is my operation, I asked Chaz to have you help us. I owe you. And I really appreciate what you've done for us, today."

"Ye appreciate nawt," Boz scoffed, but at least a little more quietly than he had been bellowing. "I'll tell you this. You all - all of you - owe me. I'll remember each and every one of you, and I will expect to be repaid when I call in the debt. But you, mister 'my operation.' You really owe me. I will be seeing you when this day is over."

The big man turned and stomped off toward the Hogsmeade village limits. He turned and called over his shoulder, "Three Broomsticks. Give me time to have a drink or four. But don't bloody take all day!"

Greg surveyed his team. He gave a particular nod of thanks to Chaz. "Well," he said encouragingly. "That went well. Let's go get Potter."

As the group mounted brooms, Greg cautioned them, "Don't kick off high. We want to start low and stay low. Toes to the ground low. Stay under any branches we can fit beneath. Heavy cover, boys, we don't want interference before we get started!"

Flying that way made the trip from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts seem even faster than it was, and as the boys were all natural daredevils on their brooms, the trip was taken at maximum speed. The group flashed beneath a wide oak, and each of the riders was whipped with leaves, which ripped off and scattered in their wake. "Whoooo!" Reimuth shouted in exhilaration. Greg hissed at him and dropped back until his shoulder was practically touching Boyd's.

"Shut it, moron!" he ordered. "They'll hear us up the castle you keep that shite up." He forced his broom back toward the front of the group, able to gain ground only very slowly since their speed was already so close to top velocity for the relatively cheap models they were all riding. He seemed to have made his point, though, and the riders flew in grim silence all the way to the Hogwarts grounds.

As they drew close enough to see the castle walls, Greg gave them a hand sign and they turned off the path, directly away from the Forbidden Forest. Keeping to as much cover as they could find, they flew a long curving route around the school, skirting the actual school property to minimize the chance of triggering any alarms until they had a view of the greenhouses. They slowed until they were barely drifting through a stand of trees, watching for any movement around the Herbology department. This was the part that Goyle had been dreading. His troops were hyped up from their ride, and ready for action. Who knew how long they might have to drift around like this, waiting to spot their target?

"There he is!" Reimuth hissed, leaning forward to grip his broomstick, ready for an immediate charge.

"Not yet!" Greg whispered back. "Let's see where he goes."

All four riders settled to the ground, still straddling their brooms, ready to kick off in an instant. And there, walking away from one of the greenhouses, pushing a heavy wheelbarrow heaped with soil, was Potter, totally oblivious. The four riders watched the Boy Who Lived trundle the clumsy-looking barrow for more than one hundred meters, leaving the greenhouse area behind. Then Greg spotted what had to be his eventual destination. There was a mound of loose soil that appeared to have been made by dumping many barrow-loads one after the other. Potter was apparently on his way to add another barrow-load to the pile. Greg whispered "Around," and waved to his team. They kicked off gently and drifted through cover until they were behind the mound. Then they dismounted and surrounded the end of the path where Potter would have to go to dump his load.

Harry was not particularly happy with this assignment. He was certain that there was some magical way to animate the wheelbarrows so that they would perform this task on their own. Why else would the pile have been placed so far away? He couldn't imagine Professor Sprout actually walking all this distance herself to pile up soil that would, ultimately, only have to be carted back to the greenhouses again. But since he did not know the spell that would make the barrows work independently, he pushed the heavy thing along, forcing it to remain upright when its natural tendency was to turn sideways and spill its contents where they did not belong.

This stupid job had to be a test, Harry thought, which made him feel even worse. If his first test was to see whether he could push dirt around, there would certainly be a lot more equally stupid and boring jobs to work through before he was allowed to do anything substantial. He was grousing to himself so vehemently that he didn't notice the four people surrounding him until he practically pushed his wheelbarrow onto Gregory Goyle's foot. He stopped just before he actually ran the boy down, and dropped the wheelbarrow's handles, letting it thump onto its back legs, sending a small avalanche of soil pouring over the side. He stared around him at the four grim faces, noticing that three of them already held wands at the ready. Goyle, empty handed, spoke first.

"We know what you're up to Potter, and frankly, I had thought better of you. Of all the people you could have chosen to conspire with, Vincent Crabbe is about the worst choice you could have made."

"Crabbe?" Harry said, baffled.

"Oh, look at him playing innocent," Goyle mocked, while his cronies chuckled menacingly. "Yeah, Crabbe, and Crabbe's little plan. You'd like the power, wouldn't you, you greedy git." Greg pointed at the Magic Eye that was currently hovering listlessly near Harry. "That flying ball over your shoulder - that's from him, isn't it?"

Harry concentrated on Goyle. He was clearly the instigator of this, the others just along for the ride. "The ball's just something... for the job here," Harry improvised, hoping that Goyle had never seen one of the magic baby monitors in use. To distract him, he went for the quickest insult he could think of. "Have you spoken with Malfoy about this? I don't think he'd be very happy having his toady taking independent initiative."

"Malfoy!" Goyle spat. "Is he in on this? I thought the bleeder was on vacation! What did he offer you?"

"I haven't seen him," Harry said with mock sweetness. "I only mentioned him because he's your boss."

Thrasher, Reimuth and Lurker all chuckled again, but this time, it was Greg who was the butt of the joke. That would not do at all. Goyle knew he had to reestablish his leadership over the group, but he was distracted. Harry had said that Malfoy was his 'boss.' Did that mean Potter had already joined forces with Voldemort? Had Malfoy beaten both Crabbe and Goyle to the punch, and brought the Boy Who Lived into the Dark Lord's service, gaining praise and promotion for his efforts? Was Draco already Head Boy of the Junior Death Eaters? Had they mounted this expedition too late? Greg had to know. "All right, Potter," he growled contemptuously. "Have you already joined? Did you get the Mark? And was it Draco that brought you in?"

"Joined what?" Harry demanded, becoming really annoyed. This was clearly a preposterous joke, something so dumb that only a blockhead like Goyle could have come up with it. It wouldn't have been such a big deal, except that if wasting time on these idiots made him appear too slow to be trusted with a wheelbarrow, his already-strained relations with Professor Sprout would be made even worse.

"Joined what?" Goyle mocked. "You don't think I know what you've been offered? Are you going to pretend you wouldn't want to be the Duke of Dorchester?"

"Slag off, Goyle," Harry said, gripping the wheelbarrow handles once again. "I have a job. If you've got nothing better to do than follow me around, you can watch me dump dirt." Harry pushed the barrow forward, as Goyle stood boldly athwart his progress, grinning. He waited to see which way Harry would turn to try to go around him, ready to move into the boy's way once again. Instead, Harry plowed straight ahead, ramming the front edge of the barrow into Goyle's shins. Filled as it was with dirt, the barrow had quite a bit of inertia, and since Goyle didn't budge from the spot he was standing, all of that energy was transferred to the points of contact between barrow-edge and Goyle. Dirt shifted forward at the sudden stop, cascading over Goyle's robes.

"Ow! You bastard!" Greg bellowed in pain. "You think Voldemort's going to protect you, you're in for a surprise!"

Harry was so shocked to hear Goyle's suggestion that Voldemort might be considered his protector, he dropped the wheelbarrow handles and stood unmoving as Gregory drew his wand. "What!?!" he cried in befuddlement as four wands leveled at his chest.

"There's only one way you'll live long enough to join the Dark Lord, Potter. And that's if you're with me when you do it. I can get you there just as sure as Crabbe and Malfoy, and the rewards will be just as great. The only difference is that you're going with me, and you're going now."

"Join... Voldemort..." Harry said slowly, disbelief giving way to rage. "To become... what was it? ... Duke of Dorchester? Goyle, did it ever occur to you that if I were - ever - going to join a group of desperate, murderous, cowardly lunatics dedicated to conquering the world, that I would want to be the one who got to be King of the World? What would I want with Dorchester? Why even bother being Duke of it if I have to obey someone else? Listen, Goyle, since you're too stupid to understand that I would never in my life join Voldemort - or that, if I had the chance, I would kill him - then maybe you'll understand this: I am not going to be anyone's toad, as you seem so eager to be. If I were going to conquer the world, I would do it for me. Now get away from here and let me do my work."

Gregory could spot a cheap dodge when he heard one. Potter was holding out. He had probably been promised some special prize that Malfoy claimed only he could bestow. "Liar!" Goyle bellowed, and sent a curse flying from his wand directly at Harry's heart.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Lupin had taken to wandering the castle, already restless after less than a day as Harry's official minder. As he had promised, he did not constantly watch the boy, only checked in now and again. That left him even more bored than if he had been focused on the Eye all the time. Sighing, he walked into the Potions classroom. Snape was sifting some finely-ground leaves into a mortar.

"You again, Wolf?" he said, annoyed. "Please do not distract me before I am finished with this. It is rather delicate."

"Certainly," Lupin smiled, taking a seat and letting his eyes go out of focus. "I'm just going to check on Harry... What the Bloody Hell!" Snape glared at Remus, ready to make some scathing comment, when the werewolf leapt from his chair, eyes focusing on his surroundings again. "He's under attack. At least four against one. Come on!"

The two professors pounded up the wide stone steps of the castle, from dungeon level to ground floor, with Lupin checking the situation through the Eye every few steps. Since this rendered Remus repeatedly blind to his immediate surroundings, Snape took his arm to guide him and keep him from smashing into a wall on his way. At the speed the two men were travelling, Remus might have knocked himself unconscious or done himself permanent damage if he had hit a solid surface. Lupin could tell that Severus was disturbed at having to actually touch another person by the tension in his fingers and the uncomfortable way he offered guidance through that tense grip. In addition to having to overcome his aversion to touch, Snape was worried, and took his worry out on Lupin, repeatedly castigating the werewolf for his laxity in observing the boy. As quickly as the men were moving, it seemed that they could never arrive in time to prevent any serious attack from turning fatal.

But as he ran, Lupin became more and more confident. Harry was holding his own. Remus wasn't sure how he was doing it, or what spells were pouring out of the boy's wand, but Harry wasn't being hurt. The werewolf did not slow his pace - he had no idea of how long Harry could hold out while so badly outnumbered. But he didn't feel quite so bad about how long it would take him to reach the boy.

By the time the two men had reached the front entrance to the castle, Remus could see that Harry's attackers had taken to their brooms. They were taking turns at swooping in, casting a curse and quickly flying away. Harry was forced to act defensively, and if he tired, the flyers might get a chance to harm him. Remus and Severus sprinted around the castle, Snape focusing on the greenhouse area. He was puzzled. There was no evidence of a magical duel taking place there. Then Remus pointed toward a pair of tiny-looking figures in the sky. They were not really small... just distant. The broomstick riders were well beyond the greenhouses. With a grimace of effort, Severus dug in, trying to run faster, his breath whistling painfully in his throat. Lupin was feeling a stitch beginning to stab his side. He gulped a single deep breath and pumped his legs faster to keep up with the potions master at his side.

The two men reached the top of a small rise and finally had a view of the battle. Remus exhaled gratefully, glad to see that the rest of their run would be downhill. But Snape gripped Lupin's arm hard and murmured, "Wait."

Both men were experienced in magical fighting. Each was an accomplished duelist. And either one was powerful and knowledgeable enough to teach an effective Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

Neither man had ever seen a defense such as the one Harry Potter employed.

Harry had pointed his wand at one of the diving flyers. A spray of silver sparkles, much like the first stages of a successfully cast Patronus, emerged from his wand. But it did not take a Patronus shape. Instead, it spread like water from a fountain, entangling the flyer and forcing him to retreat. At the same time, a second flyer had dived in from Harry's flank. He attempted to cast a curse at Harry's unprotected left side. Without even looking, Potter raised his left hand, palm out in a 'stop' signal. The curse, accompanied by a slight red glow, seemed to strike a shield of silver and die. The silvery dome around Harry, centered on his upraised left hand, glowed for a moment, then faded away. Another flyer, hovering high up and behind Harry, tilted his broom into a steep power dive at about the same time as the previous attack faded away against Potter's shield. The boy on the broomstick leveled his wand and spoke something, the exact words carried off by the breeze, in an attempt to curse Harry from behind. Harry spun on his toes and held his wand crosswise to the oncoming curse, the way a fencer might try to block a slashing blow with his sword. Very clearly, Snape could hear Harry shout, 'Repellimus!' Snape cringed. The foolish utterance was not a spell... not even a real Latin word. The attempt at making magic with it was doomed to failure. To Severus' amazement, the vaguely green-glowing curse heading Potter's way seemed to strike his wand - and immediately reversed direction, slamming into the boy who had cast it. The flyer fell chest-first along the length of his broom, and wrapped both arms around it in a desperate attempt to hold on. Hanging ridiculously beneath the stick, he rocketed on past the boy he had tried to curse, apparently unable to steer.

As the fourth flyer dove at him, Harry did cast an actual spell - with surprising results. He pointed his wand at the broom heading straight for him and pronounced, 'Incendio!' Lupin nodded in approval. Giving a broomstick rider a hotfoot was a good way to break his concentration. But the spell Harry cast did more than make the oncoming broom uncomfortably hot. The entire device, handle, twigs and all, burst into furious conflagration. Shockingly, so did the other three brooms.

The boy who had been riding directly at Harry bailed, hitting the ground rolling, and turning numerous summersaults under the impetus of his tremendous momentum. The boy who had been hanging beneath his stick simply fell, landing with a 'thud' that Severus could hear clearly, even removed by such a long distance. The other two dove their sticks toward the ground, pulled up once they were quite low, and leapt off, running away from the scene as soon as they had found their feet. The other two boys were up and running as well, although with decided limps in both cases. The brooms sent towers of flame into the air, burning to soot and ash in seconds.

Harry stood with his teeth clenched, shaking all over in rage. His wand tracked the slowest of the running boys. Loudly and clearly, he pronounced, "Avada..."

Lupin was already running. "Potter!" he screamed. "Potter, No!"

His face twisted in a grimace of hatred, Harry turned his wand toward Remus. Lupin did not stop. He charged as quickly as he ever had to get to the cub that was the future of his pack. "Harry! Don't do it!"

Harry lowered his wand. His shoulders drooped, his face fell. He looked as though he were about to cry. "Are you all right?" Remus called, still running toward him.

"They got away," Harry said in a dull, tired voice. He sat on the ground right where he was, simply falling onto his butt. He looked down and said, even more mournfully, "They got away."

Remus knelt by his side. "Harry, that is not what is important. What is important is how you are, whether you are hurt, and what medical attention you might need."

Harry would not look up. "They got away," he repeated dully.

At that moment Professor Sprout came hurrying along the path. "Harry Potter!" she called. "I saw fires! What is going... Professor Snape? Mister Lupin? What is this?"

"Harry was attacked," Remus told her, putting his arm around the boy's shoulders. "Four boys, probably students, on brooms. Harry took care of himself quite well, I should say."

"They got away," Harry said again.

"And the fires?" Professor Sprout asked suspiciously.

"Harry set their brooms ablaze," Remus said proudly. "I daresay it saved his life."

"Oh..." Professor Sprout said, somewhat mollified. "If it was as serious as all that..." She trailed off, staring at the pile of dirt to which Harry was to have added his wheelbarrow's worth. "Harry Potter!" She demanded angrily. "What in Merlin's name have you done to my soil?"

Harry, tired and confused, looked up and considered the question for a moment. Then he seemed to give up trying to make sense of it. "What do you mean?"

"I'll show you," Professor Sprout huffed, walking over to the mound of earth. She extended her wand. "Nox," she said crisply. Harry had seen the spell used to extinguish lights before, but Professor Sprout's spell cast a deep darkness over the entire area. She then cast a simple Detect Magic spell, but since Professor Spout was an uncommonly gifted witch, the spell showed uncommonly clear results. Under its veil of darkness, the dirt pile sparkled as though tiny fireworks were going off all over it. "Harry Potter, you have enchanted this entire mound of soil," Sprout scolded furiously. "How on earth can we expect it to behave properly when it's full of magic? I shall have to disenchant this entire mound!"

Snape had no intention of waiting around while Sprout and Potter sorted out their ensorcelled soil. "Lupin," he called crisply. "I presume you can dispel magic."

Remus stood slowly, not eager at all to leave Harry's side while he was in such obvious distress, but he understood Snape's plan. "Oh... quite," he admitted. "Shall we begin?"

The adults had yet another surprise awaiting them. The store of soil had not been hexed, or cursed, or - in a proper sense - enchanted. The magic with which it was imbued was raw, unformed, and in such a state, completely immune to Finite Incantatem, or any of the simple 'turn it off' types of spells. Instead, laborious disenchants and dispel magics had to be employed. As irritating as it was for them, the three adults were all glad they had discovered the situation right away. Leaving this kind of magic lying about in something as malleable as a pile of soil was a little like leaving dynamite lying about without any detonators nearby. It appeared to be safe with nothing to set off an explosion. But any idiot who happened by with a blasting cap could initiate a tremendous amount of devastation.

Once the pile of soil was magically neutral to Professor Sprout's satisfaction, Remus helped Harry to his feet and apologized to the Herbology teacher. "I realize that Harry will have to make up some of today's work tomorrow, but we really have to get him into the castle for some tests." He indicated Harry's dull expression. "He may be in a bit of shock. Sorry, Professor."

"Take him," Sprout said disgustedly. "We'll start again tomorrow. Seven o'clock if you are able, Mister Potter."

Harry nodded, his mouth slack, his eyelids drooping. "Uh-huh," he murmured, then leaned against Remus for support.

With Lupin on one side, holding him up, and Snape on the other, Harry walked back toward the castle. As soon as Sprout was out of sight, Harry's face focused sharply into an expression of rage. In a low, dangerous voice, he asked his Potions professor, "Are you proud of your House, Professor Snape?"

Severus seemed unmoved. "What was that, Potter?"

"Your House, Professor," Harry snarled. "Four Slytherins attacked me... but you can discount three of them, they were just there for backup. The real effort was made by one of them - on behalf of someone we'd all recognize."

"You're delirious, Potter. Make some sense or I'll sedate you," Snape offered calmly.

"Apparently - from what they were bragging about when the four of them thought they were going to be able to kill me - there has been a kind of contest organized, and three competitors have been chosen to go for the prize. Wouldn't you know that the three would be Crabbe, Goyle and Malfoy. The test is killing me. And the sponsor is Lord Voldemort!"

Snape looked down his nose at Harry. "Your accusations would be so much more believable if you got any of your facts right," he sighed. "Mister Malfoy is out of the country. Mister Crabbe is equally unavailable at this time. Mister Goyle... if that was Goyle, and not some other ponce under Polyjuice... may have had any number of reasons to lie to you. But if a price has been placed on your head, it is not Mister Crabbe nor Mister Malfoy who have been tapped to collect it."

--- --- ---

The four conspirators did not stop running until they were halfway to Hogsmeade. Detecting no pursuit, they broke down into a dispirited walk. Breathlessly, Goyle asked, "On the hill... when we left... did you see... who?"

"Snape," panted Thrasher. "And some other teacher."

"Horseshit," Goyle spat. "No one... would have believed... Potter's story. But now..."

"C'mon, Greg," Boyd chided. "There were the flamin' brooms."

"Burned away..." Goyle gasped. "...nothin' left of 'em."

"Yeah, well, we're fucked now," Thrasher complained. "Snape knows us all."

"And what? He's gonna turn us in for a little fight with a Gryffindor?" Reimuth challenged. "Nobody even got hurt. We're the ones who lost our brooms! What could he do, give us detention?"

Goyle knew better than that. Their results had been pathetic, but their intent had been serious enough to bring criminal charges against all of them, especially considering the distance they had travelled to make the attempt. Greg's stomach hurt. He had never considered that puny Potter would be able to put up such a defense. None of the four had even been able to get close enough to him to throw a punch. Thrasher had been knocked back on his arse, and Greg hadn't even seen how Potter had done it. The entire expedition had been a horrid, bloody failure. Potter had not agreed to join Voldemort under Greg's sponsorship. Potter had not been killed, or badly injured, or even beaten at all. In fact, the little puke had sent four serious toughs running, and had burned their brooms to top it all. Greg could only hope that Potter had been made so angry that he wouldn't be amenable to any offers from Crabbe or Malfoy. But then, the Dark Lord wouldn't be very happy about that, would he? The whole situation sucked.

The four boys walked into Hogsmeade thoroughly discouraged and beaten. Greg looked over his own robes. They were badly burnt, torn and grass stained. "Anyone look presentable enough to go into the Three Broomsticks and fetch Boz?" Greg asked. Jordan Lurker lifted a finger and nodded. "Do it, then. We'll..." he looked at Chaz and Boyd, who were as ragged as he was himself. "We'll hide in an alley or something. Hurry up!"

The Three Broomsticks was crowded with customers who were, for the most part, cheerfully drinking. Madam Rosmerta was serving multiple tables at once, her high heels clicking rapidly across the floor as she balanced a huge tray of drinks. Boz was sitting at a table alone, three empty tankards in front of him and one more lifted to his face. Jordan slid into the seat next to the big man's and quietly said, "Hello, Boz. Your brother's outside. He's ready to go home."

"Well, fuck 'im, then," Boz rumbled, his voice carrying enough to cause several customers to look his way, then quickly look away again. "Why dinn'e come gimme hi'self?"

Jordan allowed a smile to pull slightly at the corners of his mouth. "He looks like he's been in a fight."

"An' you look like ya fell asleep wi' a meter-long spliff in yer mouth," Boz countered, pointing at the long burn down the front of Jordan's robe.

"There was fire involved," Jordan murmured. "You should see the other guy."

Boz burst out laughing. "At'sa spirit. Yeh wan' summat tae drink?"

"A butterbeer would be warming," Jordan allowed.

"Can yeh pay fer'it?"

"Yes. Buy you one?"

"Rosmerta!" Boz bellowed, "Ale and a butterbeer! Aw, put yer coins away, ye daft git. I was fuckin' wi' ye."

Boz and Jordan enjoyed their drinks in silence, which was astounding to Jordan - he

hadn't thought Boz could have done anything silently. Boz tossed some coins onto the bar, then the pair went out to find the rest of their party.

When they discovered the other three, hiding in an alley, as Goyle had suggested they would, Boz laughed for nearly a full minute before taking a long breath and starting to laugh once again. He caught his breath, and the boys thought they might have a chance to ask him to apparate them immediately. But before any of them could speak, Boz said, "Me aun li'l bro... cooked like a chicken!" and dissolved into hilarity again. He stopped, wiped tears from his eyes, then pointed at Chaz and said, "Like a spitted chicken!" and guffawed some more.

When the volume of Boz's laughter died down a bit, Goyle said, "We have to be about establishing some alibis far from here," and waited for some response.

"Chicken," Boz said and laughed once more.

"The sooner we can establish that we were back at home..." Goyle began again, then stopped, choking, as Boz circled his neck with a powerful arm.

"Yeh, 'ats smart, 'at is," the huge man agreed, wrapped his other arm around Jordan, and apparated. Within another two minutes, all five were back in the garage at the Thrasher's.

--- --- ---

Professor Sprout hurried back to her greenhouse muttering under her breath. It was bad enough that the best helper she could get for the season was barely able to push dirt when it was shoveled into a wheelbarrow for him; worse still that he was - as she had suspected - a magnet for terrorists; but now, even that little bit of assistance had been taken from her. Professor Sprout was generally supportive of her students, but this particular boy had already been much more trouble than he was worth. And now, she had more work to do than before, since she had been robbed - not only of her assistant - but of the time it had taken to disenchant an entire mound of soil that had been free of magical contamination only this morning.

So it was that Professor Sprout was not in a very pleasant mood when she finally reached the bench she had lately been forced to leave, and saw Headmaster Albus Dumbledore making his way toward the greenhouse. She had not yet gotten the opportunity to touch a single one of her plants that so desperately needed repotting when Albus opened the greenhouse door - nearly letting one of the creeping creeping charlies escape - and wound his way through the overflowing tables and workbenches toward her.

She did not give him a chance to say anything. "Where were you?" she demanded as soon as the old man was within range of decent conversation. She was not about to begin shouting - yet.

With his trademark twinkle in his eye, Dumbledore replied. "I have lived a long and active life, Pomona. I would hardly be able to list all of the places I have been. Have you a particular occasion in mind?"

"Yes, I do," Sprout replied icily. "When your pet boy was attacked. That would be today, just before your spy and your werewolf took him away."

Dumbledore looked very disappointed. In his most grandfatherly cautioning tone he began, "My dear, it is hardly wise to speak of..."

"Can it, Headmaster," Professor Sprout snapped. "I notice that - one - you are fully aware of Potter being attacked. You are certainly not surprised by what I just told you. And - two - that you only show up once the difficult work of disenchanting that entire huge mound of soil has been completed. Another wand would have helped, Albus. The boy was no more help with that labor than he is around the Herbology department in general. And what makes me really angry is that I told you this would happen. The first time - the very first time - I send him outside, out of my direct sight, he attracts a quartet of hoodlums who cast curses all over my storage area, and spill wild magic all over my clean soil!"

Dumbledore assumed his lecturing posture. "The truth is, Pomona, that hoodlums are generally criminals of opportunity. If they were hovering in the area waiting to cause mischief, I daresay that anyone who had ventured out..."

"Bollocks, Albus!" Professor Sprout interrupted. "Stop giving me your 'made for the Daily Prophet' interview selection of the day! You know damn good and well that it was not Hogwarts - and certainly not Herbology - that was the target of the attack, it was Harry Potter. I told you this would happen, and it has happened - on the very first occasion on which I had Potter step outside! Will you at least allow me that? That I was correct in my assessment?"

"Certainly, Pomona," Dumbledore conceded, with apparent humility. "And I have a crucial question about the aftermath of the attack. Did you actually have to dispel wild magic?"

Professor Sprout drew herself up to her full height and faced Dumbledore head-on. Her diminutive size and rotund shape, which usually made most people think of happy gnomes and nurturing woodland spirits, now suggested something more like a battle tank. "You might have seen for yourself if you had been here to help," she said bitterly.

"The thing is," Dumbledore said in his most pleading tone, "that I don't believe that any of the magic you had to dispel came from curses. And if..."

"I don't care if it was Manna from Heaven," Professor Sprout said. "It did not belong in the soil! Using that dirt as it was could well have poisoned some of our more delicate - and rare, and therefore expensive - species. And such magically charged ground might have given something like a mandrake such a boost that it could well have become a danger to all of us, myself included. My God, Albus, if plants intended for use by students in regular classes had been planted in that dirt before it was disenchanted, we could have had injuries, permanent disfigurements, even deaths. I know that you tend to think of my department as the 'cute, harmless,' section of the Hogwarts grounds, even though that is a dangerous misconception, I assure you. But how would you feel if you had a dozen lawsuits for wrongful student deaths sitting on your desk? How would you deal with that? Would it just be a matter of bargaining down the damages the school would be required to pay? Or would you feel each and every injury as deeply as I would?

Dumbledore appeared to be truly taken aback by this outburst. He stood silently for a time, then said, "Pomona, I feel personally responsible for each and every student that crosses our threshold. I try to make each student's time here as productive for that particular person as it possibly can be. And when there is an accident, or a case of malicious mischief that leads to an injury..."

Watch yourself, Albus," Professor Sprout warned. "I'm not as young as I look."

"I know that you have seen some cases in which you felt that greater punishments for particular perpetrators were called for."

"Come on, Albus," Sprout challenged. "I've seen you cover up attempted murder. Quick case in point. About twenty years ago, Sirius Black."

"Sirius is dead, Pomona," Dumbledore asserted gravely.

"And his life may have turned out completely differently had you dealt with his 'malicious mischief' properly at the appropriate time!" Professor Sprout insisted. "Neither of the punishments Sirius suffered - neither Azkaban, nor his violent death - fit the crimes he actually committed, and even if they had, they were imposed upon him far too late to be considered justice!"

"Both of the intended victims of Black's most... serious... misdeed are alive," Dumbledore pointed out. "And, in fact, are here at Hogwarts at this very moment."

"Which is more than my plants will be if I don't get some competent help," Sprout said. "Potter is a perfectly acceptable student. Which means, if I tell him exactly what to do, every single step of the way, he can... he will... do it, and do it the way I instruct him. That is not what I need in a summer worker! I am scheduled to leave here in two weeks, Albus. When I go, I want to leave my work behind me. Part of the reason that I am leaving is to remove myself from the constant demands of my living subjects. I remind you, my plants are alive, Headmaster. They may be vegetables, but they are living creatures. They need water, sunlight, food, magical nourishment - not once a year, not once a month, not even once a day - but constantly! Temperature, humidity, acidity... those things are not to be checked every so often. They're to be monitored non-stop. The pressure is unrelenting. And if I am going to leave here this summer... and I assure you, Headmaster, I am going to leave... I have to know that my - LIVING - charges are being taken care of properly. Albus, Potter can't do it. He's a good student. He's a good fifth year student. But he is not capable of managing a Herbology department single-handedly - especially if he is going to be assaulted by flying curse-casters every time he steps outside. I need someone who can actually respond to the needs of the living subjects here in this department. I need someone who not only has the intelligence and the power, but who has the understanding - the touch. I need Neville Longbottom, Headmaster, and no one else will do."

Dumbledore looked mournful. "Pomona, I would love to indulge your desires. But it is completely out of the question. I cannot have two students on campus during the summer."

"Fine." Professor Sprout said with finality. "Then I quit. I am scheduled to leave in two weeks, anyway. That makes a perfect two-week notice. There is no term of study that I am disrupting, no class schedule that needs to be altered. I will simply be gone, as previously arranged, two weeks from today. And instead of returning, I will not."

"Pomona, please," Dumbledore implored.

"Pfft." Professor Sprout puffed dismissively. "... 'please'..." she mocked. "What have my pleas gained, except lame excuses? Don't worry, Headmaster, I'm sure that whoever you choose to take my place will have the opportunity of beginning from scratch. I doubt that any of these plants will survive Harry Potter's attempts to provide care for them."

Dumbledore heaved one of his most long-suffering sighs. "Perhaps we can find some way to make an exception for this particularly... exceptional... season."

"Don't you dare, Albus," Professor Sprout growled threateningly. If you have spent all of these days telling me how 'impossible' it was for me to have competent help, just to cave in at the first sign of inconvenience for yourself, I will be extremely vexed."

"Oh, Pomona, it is not that at all," Dumbledore said in a soft and soothing tone. "I would loathe to feel as though I had put you out of the castle. Whatever will you do?"

Professor Sprout's eyes went wide. "Are you insane? Or are you really as ignorant of the world around you as you pretend to be? With the experience I have at growing things for Snape and Poppy, all I need do is make public that I am available, and I will have a dozen job offers within a day - the least of which will offer me much more money than I am being paid here. I think it might be nice to have a house, Albus. With a garden... just for fun... and just for myself. Weekends off, without students crowding around me, needing help; regular holidays..."

"You'll not find more regular holidays than a school observes, Pomona," Dumbledore lectured, with a cautioning finger raised.

"When the bloody Hell have I ever taken a holiday off, Albus?" Professor Sprout shouted back. "The rest of the staff send me cards showing their exotic vacation sites, while I stay here tending to living things that cannot be ignored."

"I have not taken a holiday off in years, myself," the Headmaster said, his eyes once again twinkling.

"That's because you are a conniving old man who can't stand to spend a minute away from your schemes. There's something wrong with that, Albus. Something very disturbing about it."

"And what of the fight against Voldemort?" Dumbledore asked simply, but with his shoulders back and head held high.

"The particulars of that situation have changed as well, haven't they?" Sprout said sadly. "You were very important to us in the last war, Albus.Very brave, very powerful, and honestly, very inspiring. You changed during that conflict... as to a certain extent, most of us did... But you changed even more once it seemed to be over. You felt it was your war. That the people who had taken a stand against Voldemort were on a side that you owned exclusively. That you were the leader of the good, the right and the free. And you started to feel that gave you the right to manage things... and people... however you wanted. You were important to us. But you weren't the only hero by a long shot. And you started to act as though you were. In order to accept you as the Champion of the Light Side, one has to believe in you, personally. I find that now, years after I was first inspired by your dedication, that I - for one - no longer believe that you are the perfect man for the job. There is a limit to how many techniques and methods... and attitudes... one can take from an enemy, before becoming no different from that enemy. I believe you have passed that limit, Albus. I am, actually, rather relieved to be going from here."

Dumbledore was, for the first time in Pomona Sprout's memory, absolutely speechless. He stared at her in shock, apparently uncertain of what to do.

Oh," she added quietly, almost as an afterthought. "I do have one recommendation for Herbology professor, once I am gone. Take it seriously, Albus, because it is the most inspired recommendation you will likely ever receive." She leaned close to him and nearly whispered. "Hire Neville Longbottom. He can actually do the job." Then she straightened up, turned and marched toward her office, where she began packing her belongings into a travelling trunk.

--- --- ---

As the two adults on either side hustled him though the entrance to Hogwarts castle, Harry fully expected to be taken to the hospital wing. He attempted to turn in that direction, but Remus steered him insistently toward the staircase leading to the dungeons. Knowing that he wasn't hurt, he didn't particularly care about not going to be examined for injuries. But being bitterly disappointed over not having done any damage to his attackers, he felt he would rather go anywhere else than down to Snape's office, where, as was usually the case, he would probably feel even worse.

Remus led him into the potions laboratory and made sure he sat in a chair dragged from the desks in the lecture portion of the huge room. He met Harry's eyes and inspected them carefully, as though checking for concussion. Harry was more interested in what Snape was doing. He was just on the edge of Harry's vision, and it seemed as though he were casting a silencing charm.

"How many times were you hit?" Remus asked worriedly. "And was it just magic, or were they using physical attacks as well?"

Harry tried to remember what had actually happened. He could remember the feel of it, the rhythm of the combat, but whether he had been hit or not, he really couldn't recall. He hemmed and hawed a bit and Remus nodded with great concern and said "I see..." very ominously.

Then Snape took Remus' place, and Lupin went into the empty space of the laboratory, almost directly behind Harry. Harry could hear Remus' voice murmuring some sort of spell. He turned to look, but Snape immediately recaptured his attention with an imperative, "Mister Potter."

Harry turned back toward the potions professor, and heard Remus say, barely above a whisper, "He's busy." Snape nodded once, and turned his attention back to the boy seated in front of him.

"Repellimus, Mister Potter?" Snape sneered.

Harry thought as fast as he could, but had no idea what that word was supposed to mean. It sounded like an accusation, and Harry wondered if Snape was accusing him of summoning the attackers to Hogwarts himself. "I'm sorry, Sir?"

"Ree - PELL - ih - muss," Snape repeated, as though reading the pronunciation guide from a dictionary entry.

Harry shook his head. He didn't like Snape's threatening tone in the least. Besides, he was much more interested in what kind of spell Remus was casting back in the laboratory. He wanted to look, or even ask, but Snape held him fast under a direct, accusatory glare. "I don't know what you mean, Sir."

"Repellimus is not a spell, Mister Potter. It is, in fact - unless you are speaking a very corrupted local dialect - not even a proper Latin word. You should not be able to do magic by using it."

Harry was concerned, a little afraid, and as always, intimidated by Snape. But he was running out of patience with this treatment. "I won't," he said with a slight shrug.

"You did," Snape countered. "Just now, when you were being attacked. You turned your wand crosswise to an approaching curse and said 'Repellimus.' The curse rebounded from your wand and struck its original caster. I want to know how you accomplished that feat."

"I wasn't aware I had," Harry said, more uncertain than ever. "I was busy fighting."

"You can be as snotty as you wish, Mister Potter..." Snape began, but Harry spoke up quickly in his own defense.

"I'm not, Sir, really," he pleaded. "It was four against one. They surrounded me, and they had brooms. I hadn't the time to plan anything, I had to react to each attack quickly. I don't think they wanted to use magic at all. They rushed me at first, like they wanted to beat me up..." Harry trailed off, shuddering. Before his eyes flashed scenes of Dudley and his friends, punching him, knocking him to the ground and kicking him. Harry wished now that he had been able to use magic to defend himself while those attacks were happening. Instead - ignorant as he was of any power that could be used in a fight other than size and viciousness - the longer any one of those beatings had gone on, the smaller and less powerful Harry had felt. And then he would go back into the Dursleys' house with his clothes torn and dirty, sometimes with a boot-print showing, and his aunt and uncle would berate him for getting into fights, and show off their son as the good example of a child who knew better than to get into trouble. One of the worst beatings Harry had ever suffered had come at the huge, beefy hands of his Uncle Vernon, after Harry had told the man that it was his son and a gang of his friends who had been the attackers, and that Harry had tried to run from them, only to be beaten the more savagely for his 'cowardice.' He could see Vernon's knuckles still, flying at his face, drawing back, coming in again. Harry had stayed in bed for two days after that particular Friday night. On Monday, however, his aunt had forced him out of bed and off to school, where Dudley had pounded him during each of two recesses and at lunch. Where had his magic been, then? Why had he been unable to defend himself, then? Why was he so weak at his muggle home, so vulnerable, so...

"...Potter!"

Harry's attention returned to the present, as he realized that Snape had called his name quite forcefully - and apparently not for the first time. The potions professor's nose was less than an inch from Harry's, and seeing that intimidating visage looming so close gave Harry a violent start.

"Feigning insanity will do you no good, Potter," Snape scolded, standing straight once again, and thereby - mercifully - removing his glaring face from the position in which it had dominated Harry's entire field of vision.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Harry said dispiritedly. "I was just recalling all the beatings I've had." Which drew a quizzical look from Snape and a scowl of concern from Lupin. Harry turned in his chair suddenly to face Remus. "Why are you casting silencing charms in here? Sn... Professor Snape's classroom is the most secure area in Hogwarts."

"Second most..." Remus corrected absently, watching something on the ceiling that Harry could not see. Apparently satisfied, he looked back at the boy and smiled slightly. "These charms are not heavy-duty workings, Harry," he reassured the cub. "They're temporary, quick to cast and equally easy to dispel. We... your potions professor and I... simply want a little privacy for a moment from... You Know Who."

Harry's jaw dropped. "You think that Voldemort would spy on us right here in Hogwarts?"

"No, Harry," Remus chuckled. He pointed upward and moved his hand a bit to emphasize the distance he was indicating.

Harry was absolutely astounded. Did these men - even wizards as powerful and skilled as they were - think they could cast a silencing spell against God? Then he remembered the current password for Dumbledore's office. 'Divinity.' They were trying to keep Dumbledore from hearing what they had to say! Just like Remus had taken Harry to London so that Dumbledore would not be able to listen in on their conversation. And that meant... Snape shared at least some of Remus' attitude toward Dumbledore. Harry wished that he could have had some more time to think about that, and what that implied. Instead, Snape and Remus both faced him, quite seriously, and began to talk, quite quickly.

"For the past five years, many people have spoken in very grandiloquent terms about the 'vast resources of power' that you possess," Snape said skeptically.

"And today, you showed that you may well be able to draw on a reservoir of power that most wizards only wish they had," Remus added sincerely.

"Over the same five years, I have noted that your many... admittedly impressive... successes have come - not from a limitless reservoir of magical energy - but from rash action, disregard for the rules, support from your good friends, and plain dumb luck."

"But the spells you cast today were a radical departure from the way you have been taught to use magic. For example, you cast a spell with your free hand while you used your wand to cast a different one.

"And that implies that you are drawing on a source of magic which may be unfamiliar to you - and which, if you do possess such an advantage, you must learn to use with discipline and precision."

"You might be able to do things that would astound your own teachers."

"Or you may make a mistake, and blow yourself to pieces."

"So, Harry," Remus said, looking the boy straight in the eye. "I want to know if you will be willing to undergo some testing."

Harry was very excited to hear the wonderful, complimentary things the two men were saying about him. But he really didn't understand what the big deal was about doing some magical tests. "We get tested all the time here in school," he said.

Snape snorted in derision. "Under the current structure of Hogwarts' curriculum, the puny quizzes you are faced with are primarily designed to separate the truly hopeless from the merely mediocre."

Remus looked rather apologetic. "You remember I was telling you that school used to include a little more intensive study?"

"Intensive study was the least of the differences," Snape declared haughtily. "Mister Potter, what do you know about magic theory?"

Harry was cautious. This was clearly a trick question. Slowly, watching for his teacher's reaction, he said, "Magic isn't a theory... magic works. It's real. Or at least a proven theory. I mean, if there's a theory of magic, it must be a... principle? law? It must be proven by now."

Harry's heart sank. If Snape had been nasty, or angry, or insufferably superior, his reaction would have been so much easier to discount and forget about. But Snape seemed... sad. Disappointed. Almost hurt by Harry's answer. "You have been a student at this school for five long years," the potions professor mused. "And yet, you do not know what I am talking about when I mention 'Magic Theory.' Tell me, Mister Potter, have you ever wondered how the first wizard who successfully opened a locked doorway happened upon 'Alohamora?' Did that not seem rather odd to you? Did you even bother to try to picture an ancient wizard, standing in front of a sealed portal and trying out words until he hit upon one which worked? Did you ever consider how unlikely it was that such a random search would turn up any fruitful result when the correct wand motion must be performed and the correct magical feeling must also be engaged to make the spell successful? No? I thought as much. Because if you had considered it - truly tried to figure out how it might have been done - you would have been presented with a very difficult dilemma. There are more known spells than an entire staff could possibly teach a student body in seven years. How could all those spells have been discovered? Their magical words, the particulars of their accompanying wand motions, the drawing forth of the correct magical energy? How could any of them, let alone thousands - many with very precise and particular applications - have been developed? That is but one of the mysteries Magic Theory attempts to address. And yet, not one of your classmates could have a discussion - on even the most superficial level - with me regarding Magic Theory. Some of your classmates do try to rise above the abyssimally low level that Hogwarts currently expects of its students. Your friend Hermione Granger, despite being an insufferable know-it-all, is one. And yet, for all her knowledge of Hogwarts' history, and the particulars of many different kinds of magical practice, she doesn't show the slightest sign of having a clue as to how magic theory applies to the spells she can utilize so well. And that will forever limit her progress. Until she - or any of you - begin to understand that there is a definite framework, a solid basis upon which all magic is based..." Snape suddenly turned to Lupin, who was giving him a hand signal. Remus dispelled his silencing charms, and relaxed in a chair near Harry.

"So, is it 'OK,' or 'No Way?' He asked. He could have been speaking about anything from Quiddich technique to music preference.

Harry nodded. "O.K.," he tried to say casually, but his breath caught in his throat, and he coughed. Remus laughed and reached over to pat him on the back while Snape rolled his eyes at the display.

All in all, it was a perfect time for Albus Dumbledore to show up at the door to the Potions laboratory. All three of the people the Headmaster found in the potions lab appeared in very characteristic poses; Harry choking on his own spit, Remus looking concerned, Snape showing his impatience with both of the other two.

"Ah... Harry," Dumbledore mumbled, his eyes flitting from face to face as though he could not quite remember which one Harry was. "I understand you had a bit of a... fracas... out behind the old greenhouses, eh?"

Harry's eyes were filled once again with the image of Vernon's knuckles. Coming in fast, pulling back, rushing toward him again. "I'm sorry, Sir," he said miserably, unable to focus on his surroundings for the persistent memory. Knuckles in, out again, back in.

"Nothing for you to feel sorry for," Dumbledore said airily, with an expansive hand gesture, even as his sharp eyes roamed about the room suspiciously.

"I was fighting," Harry said. His voice was dull. "The worst beating I ever got was for fighting."

"Well, my dear boy..." Dumbledore said and appeared to lose his train of thought. With a slight jolt, as though he had just recalled it, he continued. "Whereas spontaneous brawling is never condoned in a civilized institution such as ours.... ah..... defending one's self from unprovoked attack is ... ummm... always acceptable."

"Defending myself was the worst thing I could do in my.... in my muggle home," Harry said bitterly, his memories so raw and painful that he didn't even want to refer to his aunt or his uncle at all, even to identify the house in which he was raised.

Dumbledore smiled conspiratorily. "I think I know what you mean," he said with a wink.

Harry looked the old man in the eye. "I don't believe you do," he challenged. "And I think it's better for everyone concerned if I continue to believe in exactly that way. As you told me the day before this past term ended - 'Your fat, stupid cousin Dudley can beat you up any time he wishes.' If I thought you had any idea of what that is like to live through - especially with Dudley's father punching me out every time I tried to stand up for myself - I would be..."

Dumbledore's voice was gentle with concern. "What would you be, Harry?"

"I would hate you!" the boy snarled.

"I see..." Dumbledore said with a resigned sigh. "Well, I hope you do not think so badly of me, Harry. After all, one of the reasons you are here this summer is to remove you from..."

Dumbledore never got a chance to finish his rambling explanation. Harry's words cut through the wooly recitation like a shear. "No, it's not." Dumbledore attempted to stave off further comment with a stern look, but Harry wasn't going to let himself be silenced. "The only reason I am here during the summer is that I threatened you. I used the only threat I had - that I would put myself in danger. As you admitted, that would put you at risk of losing your chosen weapon against Voldemort. It may have been a weak strategy, but it was all I had. And it worked. So I'm here. But you got back at me for it. You managed to turn Neville and Ron and Hermione and Professor Sprout against me. They're all either angry with me or ignoring me, and I've been promised that next term it will all be worse."

"As it will," Dumbledore agreed. "Professor Sprout as already resigned over your having been assigned to help her, Harry. The only reason she is here now is that she gave two weeks' notice before her departure."

"That's horrible," Harry cried, nearly in tears. Ever since he came to Hogwarts, it had always been someone else who had suffered whenever he had been the target of maliciousness. Ginny, Cedric... and now Professor Sprout.

"But, it is a perfect object lesson in what happens when one bows to threats. One frequently loses a different asset from the one that was protected by caving in to the threatener."

"Oh, bullshit, Albus," Remus said with disgust. "No teacher with as many years of experience and with so much personal involvement invested in her job quits because she doesn't like the summer-break garden boy. If Pomona has actually resigned, there is damn well sure to be a lot more to it than that! And it's a low tactic to try to pin it on Harry."

"Ah. Disbelief. In that case, Mister Lupin, I invite you to interview Profess... that is... Madame Sprout at your earliest convenience. Pomona will certainly be able to explain her reasons for leaving Hogwarts much more clearly than could I. In the meantime, could you take Mister Potter to visit Madame Pomfrey in the hospital wing? He seems to have suffered some blows to the head. I would like a professional opinion regarding his fitness." Remus stood with a scowl, and lent Harry a hand in rising from his own chair. They walked slowly out of the Potions laboratory as Dumbledore watched with a benign smile and Snape stood looking on thoughtfully. "Thank you," Dumbledore called sweetly as Remus crossed the threshold. "And don't worry about your hospital visit, Harry. I am sure that you will be fine."

Dumbledore allowed some time for the steps of the pair to fade down the dungeon corridor, then waited a little longer before turning to Snape and expressing his concern. "Severus... Professor Sprout has in fact resigned. And I have no viable candidate in mind as her replacement. If you are aware of an Herbologist who might be interested, I would appreciate your mentioning this person to me. In light of this... sudden absence of a certain teacher... I feel that we must be particularly on guard against Harry Potter running away. It would not do to have the Boy Who Lived outside of Hogwarts' warding, and yet unable to take advantage of his relatives' blood magic protection."

"Oh, there will be no difficulty in that respect," Snape enthused in a sarcastic parody of confidence. "Especially since, mere moments ago, before my very eyes, you made absolutely certain the boy knew he was a pariah, whose mere presence makes his friends and even his teachers flee. Brilliant handling of the situation, Headmaster."

Albus smiled, his eyes twinkling merrily. "I am glad, Severus, that as you have grown more mature, you have developed a sense of humor. But you must appreciate the necessity of keeping Mister Potter from fleeing the school grounds."

"I don't appreciate being made the boy's babysitter. As I told you, I have much work to do, and the boy has already stolen time from me on every single day he has been present after the regular term. I also don't appreciate my job being made more problematic for me by your own taunting of the boy. Especially when you then tell me that I must work even harder now to keep him from trying to escape that very treatment. What were you thinking?"

"As usual, I was thinking about the central, defining tragedy of our time. A generation ago, it was the rise of Lord Voldemort. Now, it is his return. So far as we know, Old Tom Riddle has only been afraid of two people in his entire life. One of those people... is me. The other is the Boy Who Lived. While Voldemort was incorporeal, and his organization in shambles, Harry Potter had to be kept contained. Allowing his full magical potential to blossom too early, or to reach its full potential before the boy was schooled, would have been quite dangerous - for everyone in the entire world. Potter is a powerful weapon. And like any powerful weapon, he requires preparation before use; the removal of safety devices that have kept him from... ummm... going off... before he could be properly aimed and fired. His muggle relatives kept his potential quite well contained during his entire childhood. And they kept it from developing too quickly during his first five years of magical instruction. But now, when Old Tom is returning, it is time to take the safety off, time to allow the... ahhh... chain reaction to build. When I set Harry Potter on Lord Voldemort, I intend for the so-called Dark Lord to have no idea what has happened to him until he is dead. And not merely dead, but so utterly destroyed that he can never, ever, return to this plane of existence again."

"And the boy?" Severus drawled.

"I don't think you will be overly upset, Severus," Dumbledore said blandly, "when James Potter's son gives his life to rid the world of the evil of Tom Malvolo Riddle."

"Perhaps not. But I do believe that anyone fighting for Good and for Freedom should be allowed the chance to choose to do so."

"Heroes never know what they are getting into," Dumbledore smiled nostalgically. "They do what they must, and usually never look like heroes when they are actually doing it. It is in the remembering, and the honoring, that heroes become the larger-than-life figures up to whom people… ah… look. Harry Potter will have his opportunity for heroism. He will have, also, his opportunity for revenge against the villain who killed his parents, and made his life so difficult. He will be excited to have the opportunity, and would feel cheated if he were denied it."

Snape was frankly astounded by his own reaction. He would have expected to greet the news of Harry's impending death just as Dumbledore predicted: if James Potter's son were to be banished from the world of the living, then so much the better for everyone else. But after this afternoon's display of magical defense, Snape was more cautious. If his guess was correct, Potter's was not the kind of power one simply threw away, no matter what might be gained in return. Dumbledore had apparently committed himself to a course that included that very waste. Severus thought a bit and decided that he did not like the Headmaster's plan. For one thing, it destroyed a tremendously powerful young wizard. For another, it robbed Snape of the duel he truly wished to witness: that between Voldemort and Dumbledore himself.

As the potions professor considered this, the Headmaster walked toward the door of the classroom. He turned around just before he exited. "Ahhh... Severus. I am... not sure that... the Magic Eye is such a good idea. It seemed to create some interference with surveillance systems of my own, upon which I depend to keep this castle and everyone within it safe and secure. While the three of you were here, with the Eye flying around Harry, I wasn't able to understand a word any of you said. Can you imagine that?"

Showing his impatience clearly, Snape complained, "If the Magic Eye must go, then Lupin will have to follow the boy around all day long. I thought that was exactly what you did not want. Lupin the lenient will find some excuse to take Potter into Hogsmeade for a Three Broomsticks visit, or to stock up on Honeydukes' sweets. They may wind up on Diagon Alley, drooling over brooms in Quality Quiddich while claiming to shop for school supplies."

"Well, then, Severus," the Headmaster wheezed, "you must put your foot down. Any time Mister Lupin steps off of Hogwarts' grounds, he is to inform you. So that when Potter and his - admittedly lenient - escort go off-campus, you will be able to follow them, to ensure the safety of them both." Snape sputtered with fury, but it was to no avail. The Headmaster raised a warning finger and in his most serious tone, said, "That is a direct order, Professor Snape." The two men faced each other for a long moment, Snape's waves of anger breaking fruitlessly against the Headmaster's determination. Dumbledore stayed long enough to feel that he had made his point, then the old man turned and left. Severus stood staring at the place he had been for a long time, lost in thought.

--- --- ---

Harry worried about many things on his way to the hospital wing, the least of which was his possible injuries and the treatment Madame Pomfrey might prescribe for whatever hurts he might have had. Most of all, he worried that he would never be able to have a straightforward conversation again. Walking next to Lupin, he had so much he wanted to say to the man, and to ask of him - and he was unable to utter a single word of it, for fear that his conversation would be overheard by unfriendly ears. When he had faced problems such as this in the past, the people he had wanted to communicate with were his friends of many years. Between Ron's attitude and Hermione's intelligence, he could get quite a lot of substantive communication into a very few words and gestures. What was more, he really hadn't ever felt so closely monitored at any time in his entire life as he felt just then. If Remus felt he had to cast silence in Snape's dungeon in order to speak freely, the walls really must have ears! What could he do? Casually, but with a hopeful look at the man walking next to him, Harry said. "You know, the Tests..." he paused for a beat to try to make the word more significant "I took last year really did seem difficult to me."

Remus smiled and nodded. A quick wink let Harry know that the man had caught on to what the boy was trying to do. "Oh, I'll bet you would be... Willing To Take Them, Anytime..." Remus, too, paused to allow his previous phrase to stand out. "... the staff wanted to offer them to you. I know you're confident, and I'll bet you... Have Learned More Than You Think... these past few years."

It was all Harry could do to hold himself back from jumping and cheering. Remus understood! And he was talking back. With a tremendous feeling of relief, Harry said, "It would be easy in summer, cause we could use... Any Place Around... to hold exams."

Remus shook his head slowly. "I don't know, Harry. After today's attack... It Wouldn't Be Safe... to use anywhere here. I think... Snape Might Be Able To Find A Place... you know how he loves to vex you, and a re-examination would be just the kind of thing he would delight in."

They reached Madame Pomfrey's office, where she was making out requisition forms for the many medicines that she felt the school would need for next term. She looked up in surprise. She quickly checked each of her visitors over, and then, in her habitually kindly and patient tone, greeted them. "Mister Lupin.. Mister Potter. Which of you am I to be treating today? Or is it both?"

Harry grinned. He liked Madame Pomfrey, and had to remind himself to not address her by her nickname, "Poppy," which the teachers used. It wouldn't be proper for him to be so familiar with a staff member, but Madame Pomfrey was so friendly, so understanding, and so encouraging, that it was hard not to consider her a personal friend instead of the school mediwitch.

"Harry was attacked out behind the greenhouses," Remus said matter-of-factly. "He sent the hooligans running - I saw the last of it, he was really rather remarkable - but we all thought... Headmaster Dumbledore, Professor Snape and myself, that is... that you should have a careful look at our young warrior."

"Attacked?" Poppy said with a disapproving scowl. "Was this some holdover from last term, Mister Potter?" She dropped her requisition form, left her desk, and led Harry to one of the examining tables.

"No, ma'm," Harry said apologetically. "It was... complicated."

"I see," Madame Pomfrey said, a stern warning in her voice. "House competition, perhaps? Something to do with pride? Or a girl?" She looked into Harry's eyes, then put her hands gently but firmly onto his head, and turned it so she could look into his ears.

"No, ma'm," Harry repeated. "They were competing for a reward from Lord Voldemort."

The mediwitch was still holding Harry's head, and when he mentioned the Dark Lord, she jumped so severely, she nearly did more damage to Harry than his entire fight had done. "What?" she demanded, outraged.

"I know it's hard to believe, ma'm. In fact, no one has believed me so far. But if it's not true, I don't see any other reason why they would have done it. According to what they said, there's a contest. Sponsored by... You-Know-Who. Kill me, and win the prize. I don't even know how much is being offered. But it was enough to get four of them to come here to try to collect."

"What did they do to you?" Poppy said, obviously enraged, yet still concentrating on trying to find whether Harry had suffered any injuries.

"Not much, really," Harry mused, trying to visualize the brawl as it had happened. "They tried to rush me, but I pushed them back with magic. Then they mounted their brooms and took turns strafing me while the others stayed out of range. Then they ran away."

"They flew away, you mean," Pomfrey corrected.

"No," Harry said sheepishly. "I set their brooms afire. All the broomsticks burned. Remus saw that. He and Sn... Professor Snape were running out to stop the fight. The four guys ran away."

"Well!" the mediwitch exclaimed, studying Harry intently. "You appear to have been a very fortunate young man, Mister Potter. I will have to cast some curse detection spells, to see if any malignant magic was able to affect you at all. Please sit very still while I do this."

Harry nodded his understanding of the instructions and sat unmoving. Madame Pomfrey cast a spell that sent a ring of green light sweeping over Harry very slowly. As it progressed, Remus murmured an aside to Poppy. "You may want to get out to the greenhouses sometime soon. Dumbledore says Pomona gave her two-weeks' notice."

"She's quitting?" Poppy gasped, somewhat more loudly than Remus had spoken.

"Yeah," Harry said, dejectedly. "She quit because of me."

Madame Pomfrey turned a stern eye upon the boy sitting on her examining table. "I don't know who you think you are, young man, but Professor Sprout is a strong, independent woman who does not quit because of a single student."

"Ask Dumbledore," Harry mumbled sullenly. "He told me. Whether it was the attack or just because she was forced to take me as summer help, she quit, and it's my fault, and I feel horrible about it."

"Just because he has a trading card packed in boxes of chocolate frogs, you needn't believe everything Albus Dumbledore says," Madame Pomfrey said crisply. "Scan is finished - you haven't been cursed. Good for you. And Harry," she added as the boy climbed down from the table's edge. "Don't feel badly about Professor Sprout. I'm going to go have a word with her right now. I'll tell her I recommended that you rest for the remainder of the day. And I'll try to get to the bottom of this resignation business. I remind you - adults do things for many reasons, and if Professor Sprout said something to the Headmaster about you, I'm sure her comments were meant to illuminate some disagreement she had with Professor Dumbledore - not to blame you for driving her away from the school. And I will be willing to bet that there are many more factors contributing to her decision than you could possibly be responsible for."

Harry nodded, though he was not at all convinced by the mediwitch's reassurances. He turned to leave, and Madame Pomfrey called to him one more time. She wore a mischievous grin. "Harry. One against four. Good job on sending the beggars running. And from what I can see, they didn't lay a glove on you. Keep safe."

"Yes'm," he said uncertainly as he backed out of the door. Remus gripped his shoulder and turned him toward Gryffindor Tower.

"You heard the doctor," he said heartily. "Rest for the remainder of the day. What will you do with all that free time?"

Actually, free time was the last thing Harry wanted right then. He would have preferred to go back to the greenhouses, or go for magical testing with Remus and Snape... anything except lay about in his room and think of Professor Sprout quitting, or Dumbledore spying on the entire castle, or Voldemort holding a 'Kill Harry Potter' contest. Still, he imagined that the adults needed some time to talk. Poppy with Professor Sprout, Snape with Remus. He went to his room and tried to relax, but he was far too tense. He couldn't settle down enough to read anything. Every time he would look at a page, images would impose themselves over the text; images of Slytherins on brooms, swooping down to cast curses on him; images of one of his favorite teachers raging at the Headmaster, saying that she was sick of all of this Harry Potter nonsense, and that she was quitting her job because of it. He considered taking his broom out and riding over the campus, but since he was here by doctor's orders, supposedly in need of rest, he knew it would be foolish to even attempt to sneak out for a ride.

So he lay there, imagining Voldemort announcing the contest standings: "Gregory Goyle and his Quartet of Quavering Quibblers: Zero Points for their truly pathetic showing against the Boy Who Lived. Up next, Draco Malfoy, after which, if Potter should somehow survive, we will see the murderous improvisations of Vincent Crabbe!"

He couldn't stand that after only a few minutes. He had to do something. He tried to write a letter to Hermione, but couldn't concentrate. Every time he managed to forget about Voldemort, he imagined Hermione and Ron spending weeks together at the Burrow and was unable to write anything that didn't feel immature, intrusive, or improperly curious. Writing to Ron posed the same difficulty, though from a different perspective. In neither case did he even want to ask how their relationship was progressing. Especially if he had misunderstood what he had seen between them at the end of term, or if the two of them had suffered some sort of falling-out - which seemed very likely, given their history of repeated arguments. But that was the single most important question he had for either of his friends. Almost anything else they would be involved with would be affected by whether or not they were spending time together and how they were getting on. So he couldn't think of anything to ask that didn't sound stupid as soon as he tried to write it down. And he really had nothing good to say about how he was doing. Putting today's happenings in a letter felt very odd, almost as though he were bragging - or whining - or trying to draw attention back to himself. 'Hey, look - I got attacked again! And my boss quit her job because of me!' Even if his friends took no offense at the grandstanding tone such a letter would naturally have, they would simply be worried for him, and they would be able to do nothing, so by mentioning it, he would simply be making his friends feel bad. Worst of all, he could find no way to mention anything about Remus' (and, apparently, Snape's ... and from the sound of it, even Madame Pomfrey's) misgivings about Dumbledore. He was afraid that his mail might be intercepted. Or worse, that he would be spied on while he was writing it. What if Dumbledore could see through the Magic Eye as easily as Remus could? He shuddered as a creepy feeling of being surrounded by unseen enemies settled over him, crushing out whatever remnant of a good mood he might still have been holding on to. He couldn't read, couldn't write, couldn't get out and fly, and simply lying around let him imagine the schemes Malfoy and Crabbe were plotting against him at that very moment. So he fidgeted, paced, looked out the window, and fidgeted some more. Feeling worried, nervous, and guilty, Harry somehow fell asleep and dreamed of Voldemort's 'Kill Harry' contest all night long.

--- --- ---

One advantage of his early night was that Harry arose in plenty of time to make it to work the next morning. He was there before seven o'clock, and determined to do his best. One disadvantage to a night filled with repeated nightmares was that he looked and felt terrible. Still, he was determined to put his best foot forward. "Good Morning, Professor," he called as he walked into the largest of the greenhouses, where Professor Sprout was already at work.

The Herbology professor was pleased that her helper had shown up early. Then she looked the boy over and thought that Poppy must have been mistaken. This lad looked as though he still needed medical attention. That wasn't her decision to make, though. So she called out, "Good Morning, Mister Potter. We'll be separating some of these plants into individual pots today. I've started, so you can see what the result looks like. Come here and watch me, then I'll give you some to do yourself."

Harry watched, caught on quickly, and started working on his own set of plants. He and the Professor worked together silently for a while, but soon the tension was too much for the boy. He had to ask. "Professor? Did you really quit your job here at Hogwarts?"

"Really quit? As opposed to what?" Professor Sprout replied icily. "Phantom quitting, resignation through ghostly manifestation? Hallucinatory notice-giving? No, Harry, I will not be returning to teach Herbology at Hogwarts next term."

"I'm sorry." Harry's voice was very small.

"As will most students be, though they likely won't realize it right away."

Harry could see that his teacher had not understood. He didn't want her to think he didn't care about the trouble he had caused her. "No, I mean... I apologize. Professor Dumbledore told me that you had quit because of me."

Professor Sprout threw her trowel down into a mound of potting soil, where it stuck like a balanced knife hitting a target. "He told you what?" She demanded, hands on hips.

In that pose, with her face stormy with anger, Professor Sprout was as intimidating as Professor Snape had ever been. Harry stammered, trying to force an answer out and prevent that anger from exploding onto him. "He said... you quit because I was horrid, and then I drew the attackers after me, and we spilled magic all over your soil, and..." He stopped trying to explain. Professor Sprout was obviously furious.

"That... Bastard!" She spat. Harry was shocked into complete stillness. He had never heard any staff member at Hogwarts use such foul language. Not even Filch, for all his meanness and threats, had ever actually used bad words in Harry's hearing. He stood stock-still and stared. "Before I leave, I will be certain to punch his nose. How dare he!" The Herbology professor was fuming. "You listen to me, Harry Potter. You could not make me quit this job. If you did your absolute worst to sabotage everything I have worked for, I would make you suffer for it, but I would not quit because of you. And I did not quit because of you. And I am particularly annoyed at Alb... at Professor Dumbledore because, in point of fact, I quit because of him. It was his decisions that I disagreed with. His policies that gave me trouble. His way of doing things that I could no longer abide. Quit because of you? Ridiculous. Divide your plants, Mister Potter. We have a lot to accomplish today."

Harry felt better than he had since before the attack on him the previous day. And as he threw himself into the repetitive work, he found himself thinking more and more of what he was discovering about the adults who knew Hogwarts best. Remus, then Snape, then Poppy, and now Professor Sprout had all expressed feelings about Headmaster Dumbledore that ranged from misgivings to outright contempt. Harry began to realize that his child's-eye view of the school was not necessarily accurate. And his impression that Dumbledore was the unquestioned leader of all good wizards and witches was particularly flawed.

Harry worked hard all day, and though the work was fairly simple, he felt good that he had made some progress toward being a better Herbologist. He walked out of the greenhouse, looking back to call good night to Professor Sprout, and walked straight into Remus Lupin.

"Watch yourself, there, Harry," the werewolf cautioned him, holding his shoulders to keep them both from falling. Remus laughed and said, "When I say 'watch yourself,' I really mean it." He plucked the hovering Magic Eye out of the air and held it against Harry's skin. "Say 'no,' please," he instructed the boy.

"Uhhh... no," Harry said, confused.

Remus pocketed the device. "Magic Eye has to go - Dumbledore's orders. Don't worry, we'll find something to use it for. Did you work hard today?" Harry nodded as the two of them began to walk toward the castle. "Get your hands dirty?" Remus asked, glancing down to confirm that, indeed, Harry's hands were covered in dirt. "Well, then, why don't you go wash up and we'll get a drink and something to eat at the Three Broomsticks?"

Harry was baffled. One day, he was attacked, the next day he was invited out to the village? It hardly made any sense. "Umm... Can we?"

So long as you are accompanied by your loyal 'Uncle' Remus... and our good friend and protector, Professor Snape," Remus smiled.

"Snape...?" Harry began, then a look of comprehension flooded over his face. "Oh. Right. Sure. Let me get washed and changed and I'll be right down."

Harry washed quickly and changed into muggle clothes, leaving his school robes behind. If what he thought was in store really was, then he would need the most comfortable, least confining clothing he owned. He ran down the stairs toward the castle's front entrance, with the voice of the Fat Lady calling warnings from behind him: 'Careful you don't slip... hit each step squarely, not on the edge... beware of the staircase shifting in front of you... oh, why must you children run so?' During regular term, the stairs were usually so crowded that none of the students could run. The Fat Lady really seemed worried. Harry decided that on his way back, he would walk. But right now, he couldn't wait to see what Remus and Snape had in mind for him.

As he reached the ground floor, he saw his adult escorts waiting, Remus wearing a huge, carefree grin, Snape impatiently tapping his fingers on his arm. Remus spied Harry first, but it was Snape who spoke up. "If we are going to waste valuable time on carousing in a village beerhall, we should get started now, and be back all the sooner," he sneered, glaring at Harry.

"Yes, Sir," Harry agreed immediately, and all three companions walked out of the castle. As they crossed the wide lawns in front of the entrance, Remus talked of butterbeer and some of the Three Broomsticks' house specialties. Bubble And Squeak was a favorite in the village, especially because it was served on plates that remained magically hot, so the bubbling and squeaking that was usually only seen and heard by the cook could be appreciated by the diner, as well. And Bangers And Mash was different than at any other eatery in England - mostly because the sausages from which the dish got its name actually lived up to their colorful moniker and literally exploded during the meal. The dish was served under a special blast shield to prevent injuries, but the loud banging could be heard throughout the establishment whenever an order of Bangers And Mash was being enjoyed at any of the tables. Harry started to wonder whether they actually were going to simply go into Hogsmeade that evening. He didn't want to put a damper on Remus' enthusiastic descriptions, but he was really rather disappointed that there hadn't been something more exceptional planned. Then, as the three turned a corner on the path leading away from the school, Snape turned suddenly and wrapped an arm around each of his companions. "Here," he said sharply, and immediately apparated.

As soon as the loud 'crack' of their apparation sounded in his ears, Harry felt Snape pull away from him, breaking contact the very instant it was first possible. Harry looked around him, and wondered out loud "Where is this? The Forbidden Forest?"

Snape's impatient correction came immediately. "You should know the Forbidden Forest well enough to realize that this could not possibly be anywhere within its borders. In fact, while this area has not been quite so meticulously tended on a regular basis as was the case several hundred years ago, these are the manicured grounds of one of the most extensive estates in all of Wizarding England. Pardon me." He reached out to grab a shrub. Harry thought the potions professor might be preparing to pull the bush out of the ground, but the boy was astounded when a huge section of earth opened up instead. "In. And down," Snape ordered, and Remus obeyed instantly, disappearing quickly below the surface. Harry followed, and Snape brought up the rear, making sure the trap door was closed behind them. "It's a long way. Move swiftly or we'll be here all night. Lumos."

Harry decided not to create his own light, since the illumination from Snape's wand was brighter than a torch, and lit their way adequately. Remus kept a fast pace, though he never quite broke into a run, and Harry had to struggle to keep up. He gained an appreciation of the physical condition of his potions professor during that walk. Snape never seemed to be hurrying or straining, but he never fell back, even though Harry had to trot several times to keep up with Remus' walk. When they reached the dead end of the corridor, Remus merely waited to one side as Snape moved to the end wall and listened carefully.

"It should be empty," Snape said quietly. "I would hope that even the house elves have left. There may still be guard magic or traps in place. I will enter first and check. He touched the wall in several spots in quick succession and the wall swung open to reveal a well-stocked library beyond. "Wait here, and do not cross that threshold until I have investigated what lies beyond."

Harry waited impatiently, looking through the open wall into the luxurious room beyond. It was beautiful and astounding. It seemed to have hundreds of books, and there were scrolls and flat parchments scattered throughout the collection as well. The room itself had a grand elegance of the like that Harry had never seen outside of Hogwarts itself. But whereas Hogwarts had been designed as a castle - a huge structure made to house a community that would have included everyone from aristocracy to peasants - and had been turned into a school - a huge institution made to serve hundreds of students and staff - this room had a more intimate feel, as though it had been made for a single family, and had been utilized primarily by a single individual. As Snape lit the lamps, there was something comfortingly personal about the cool illumination, and the bookmarks in several volumes seemed to speak of one person's repeated visits to these same shelves, without the interference of a crowd of others disturbing the order in which the owner had left them. When Snape returned several minutes later, and motioned Remus and Harry to enter the room itself, it seemed even more impressive. "Wow," was all Harry could say for a long while. He followed Snape out of the library and into a huge room that he at first imagined to be a great banquet hall or ballroom. Then the details of the room snapped into focus for him, and he realized that what they were taking so long to walk all the way across was really only an entryway, with a tiny hall leading to an outer door at one side, a huge double-doorway opposite that, the library door though which they had come, and across the room, another similar door. An unsupported stairway climbed from the center of the floor until it branched into twin stairs leading to a suspended walkway at second-floor height. That walkway disappeared into arches at either side of the room. The ceiling was at least one more story taller than that, implying a tremendous size to this home. And he had thought this was an intimately personal place! The staff alone must be huge. Harry couldn't imagine how many people must live here. "Whose house is this?" he wondered out loud.

"I had thought you would have guessed that by now," Snape's silky tone implied a cruel joke. Harry shrugged. Expansively, Snape explained. "This is Malfoy Manor, currently property of Lucius Malfoy, and soon, almost certainly, to be confiscated by the State when Lucius is convicted of Treason and Murder, both with special circumstances that will allow the most severe punishments extant under law."

"Malfoy!" Harry said, immediately looking around, as though expecting to be attacked. "But... Voldemort offered to reward Draco for killing me!"

"Are you still on about that?" Snape scoffed. "I said Draco was out of the country, and here's the proof. And, I suppose you will be glad to note that he does not plan to return for next term's instruction at Hogwarts."

Harry would have felt better if he had not believed that the reason for Draco's absence would be that Malfoy would flee the country to avoid being arrested for the murder of Harry Potter. He decided to change the subject. "How can the State confiscate property? If they convict Lucius, doesn't the house go to his family?"

Snape laughed bitterly. "One of the advantages that is so often touted regarding Wizard Law in Britain is that our laws are stable, consistent, and reliable - especially when contrasted with Muggle Law. The truth behind the claim is that wizards live so much longer than muggles that wizard lawmakers tend to stay in their positions for many times longer than their muggle counterparts. The result is 'stable,' in one view. And 'rigid, inflexible, and unadaptable,' in the opposing opinion. Our laws regarding Treason have not changed significantly in nearly six hundred years. A man convicted of treason loses all his real property - that includes his houses, lands and the livestock and/or crops upon them. He forfeits all of his aristocratic honors, including the right to use his own Family Heraldry, as well as his entire personal fortune. The State - in this case, the Ministry of Magic - receives title to all of that. They can either keep or sell the real property. The personal fortune is placed into the Treasury. The debate now raging among the legal experts at the Ministry is whether personal property... such as the volumes in the library or the paintings on these walls... is also subject to confiscation. The prevailing opinion, it should come as no surprise, is that it is subject to confiscation. Therefore, anyone - including Narcissa or Draco Malfoy - who takes anything from this house... even so much as a book or a candlestick... is guilty of robbery. And since that robbery would involve State property, confiscated from a traitor, there has been the suggestion that such thieving would be prosecuted as Treason, itself. Convenient, isn't it?"

Harry had never thought he would feel any sympathy for any Malfoy, but he also had no respect at all for Cornelius Fudge. The thought of Fudge's Ministry prosecuting Narcissa Malfoy for taking her own book away from the home she was about to lose seemed very unfair. "But why did we come here?" Harry asked, still looking around worriedly.

"Let me count the ways," Snape replied with a superior smirk. "It's huge, it's deserted, it's far from Hogwarts, it has numerous shielding and silencing charms already in place. And most of all, it contains a room, originally built over three generations ago, and only recently updated by Lucius himself. The room is an automated practice facility, designed to hone one's magical combat skills."

"Automated?" Harry scowled. "I can't imagine Lucius Malfoy working with machinery."

"And very few of the workings in the room are actually mechanical," Snape confirmed. "Magic drives it, and while it should have enough power stored within its components to give you a good workout, Mister Lupin and I can provide enough additional energy to really make it challenging."

Harry was eager to give the magical workout room a go, but the trip through the house seemed to take forever. They never walked through anything as mundane as a kitchen, and after they had passed through the third great room in a row, Harry had begun to wonder where the bathrooms might be. But finally, after they had travelled through a long, dark hallway, into a concealed doorway built seamlessly into the paneling, down a twisting flight of stairs and past a few tiny rooms with heavy doors that looked suspiciously like dungeon cells, Snape cast an anti-glamour charm on an apparently blank wall, and a very modern-looking doorway was revealed. The potions professor tried the plate that was inset into the door's surface in the place where a knob usually protruded from most doors. He seemed very relieved when it yielded to simple pressure and the door swung wide. Snape then stepped very confidently into the room and pointed toward one wall. Mister Lupin and I will be in the control centre, there," he announced. "The exercises are designed to be activated there, and although a single person working alone can select a program of activities and then enter the room from the control centre, it works even better when the subject begins his workout in the middle of the room while the program is activated for him. There are surprise attacks, strength attacks, speed attacks, and so on."

"Wait," Harry called after the potions professor as Snape disappeared into a small door set in one wall. "What do I..."

"No questions!" Snape commanded. "This is a combat simulation. Your enemies will not tell you their plans, and you should not expect your practices to be predictable, either."

Remus closed the main entrance behind him and then he, too disappeared into the control centre. The small door closed and Harry was alone. "Ahhh... Remus?" the boy called.

"Yes, Harry," Lupin's disembodied voice seemed to come from every direction at once.

"Can you see me?"

"Yes, I can."

"How?"

"There's a mirror in here. It looks a little like a television screen right now, because I can see you in it. Smile for the camera!"

"There's no camera," Harry said with a scowl, checking all around the room to make sure.

"That's the advantage of magic!" Remus sounded very cheerful. Harry, on the other hand was feeling less confident by the second. He had thought that 'magical testing' would be something like Madame Pomfrey's scanning spell, or would involve some kind of meter at which he would cast spells as strongly as he could. This seemed more like a trap the longer he stood here. If Remus had not been in the control Centre with Snape, Harry thought he would have fled before the testing began.

"Stop worrying, Potter," Snape's sarcastic voice boomed from all around the workout room. "It's set to the lowest possible difficulty level. Get ready! Beginning test... now."

For a long moment, nothing happened. Harry wondered whether the first test to overcome would be invisible poison gas or something equally difficult to detect. Then he heard the unmistakable 'crack' of apparation. He spun around to see Cornelius Fudge. For an instant, he felt awful. Fudge had tracked them down, and now Harry would be put on trial for Treason for trying to use the traitor Malfoy's house for his own purposes. Then he saw that - whatever was standing before him - it certainly was not the Minister of Magic. The creature was clearly artificial. Harry almost laughed at the clownish exaggeration of Fudge's characteristic features. Then he saw that the simulacrum was holding a knife.

The artificial Fudge advanced with menacing determination. His arms were wide, the knife ready to strike. In an eerie mockery of Fudge's own voice, the thing said, "If I can't beat you with the law, I'll gut you like a fish, Malfoy."

Harry knew the threat was supposed to lend realism to the simulated attack, but to Harry, the thought of Fudge in a knife fight was hilarious. Especially when the Fudge copy had mistaken Harry for Malfoy. This, at any rate, would be easy. "Petrificus Totalis!" Harry shouted, and the knife-wielding Fudge-thing fell over, motionless.

"Not tough enough, Potter," Snape's cold criticism sounded throughout the room.

"What do you want me to do, kill him?" Harry responded, annoyed.

"He would have killed you. This is combat training, boy. And your enemy said he was going to gut you like a fish. Show him what guts are, Potter!"

"All right," Harry said uncertainly, looking for the next attack.

"He's still lying there," Snape prompted sourly.

"What?" Harry protested. "He's petrified!"

"What better time to learn the killing curse, Mister Potter?"

"But... that's unforgivable!"

"So is Voldemort and everything he has done to ruin your life!" Snape's voice boomed at ear-splitting volume. "There's your enemy. He is - temporarily - helpless. Think of last term, Potter. Think of the scars on your right hand! Think of Fudge trying to destroy any chance you might have had for a future. Kill him!"

"Avada Kadavra!" Harry shouted, pointing his wand. A weak green glow shone from the end of Harry's wand for a moment, then died away. The Fudge-thing lay on the floor, immobile, but alive.

"You'll have to do better than that if you expect to survive," Snape sneered. "Next phase beginning."

This time, the 'crack' of apparation was followed by the appearance of... Severus Snape. Harry goggled at the simulacrum in shock. It turned toward him, its greasy hair gleaming in the room's light. "You were always so loyal, Lucius," it purred. "How delicious that you will be killed by a traitor!"

The fake Snape drew its wand, and Harry immediately shouted, "Expelliarmus!" and the Snape copy's wand went flying. Harry cast a leg-lock charm to hold the artificial Severus in place, then once again attempted an unforgivable spell. "Avada Kadavra!" Harry thought he saw a flash of green, but the simulacrum was unaffected. He cast a stunning spell instead. The faux Snape fell over and lay motionless.

Harry waited for the inevitable criticism, but there was only silence. He waited a bit longer, watching for a new challenge to appear, but no new enemies appeared. Then he heard what sounded like a brawl. The noise of punching, and of furniture being upset, came from all around the room, just as Remus' and Snape's voices had. Then he heard Snape scream. The scream was cut off suddenly, as though something awful had happened to the potions professor. Remus' voice echoed throughout the workout room. "Good God, Harry, run. He's here! He's..." and then there was nothing.

"Remus!" Harry shouted. "Professor Snape?" He turned toward the doorway to the control centre just in time to see the door come flying off its hinges, blown back into the workout room by an explosive spell. Walking through the remains of the door was Voldemort.

Harry blinked. He squinted. He wasted precious time trying to determine if this thing was another simulacrum. It was not. It couldn't be. Voldemort stood there, grinning in obscene triumph, blood dripping down his robes. There was no sound from Snape or Remus. There could be no doubt about whose blood was running down that cloth. Voldemort's weirdly baby-pink skin gleamed in reflected light. His nearly lipless mouth revealed oddly fish-like pointed teeth. His eyes glittered with madness. "And now, you die," he said gleefully, raising his wand.

Harry pointed his own wand directly at the centre of Voldemort's chest. He had no time to think of a spell, he had just demonstrated to himself that he could not cast the killing curse. All he could do was put a lifetime of emotion into the energy that poured through his wand. "Damn You!" he bellowed.

The pure white beam caught Voldemort directly in the chest, but his entire body immediately lit up like a filament in a light bulb. He quivered for an instant, then exploded into a liquid mist so fine it did not even form drops, spreading like a fog outward from where his body had been. Harry's spell was not yet done with him, though. The mist steamed, becoming vapor, then the vapor superheated, becoming plasma. There was a blinding flash of light and then sudden darkness, as all the heat from Voldemort's destruction - which otherwise would have made the workout room hotter than an oven - imploded on the point at the exact center of where Voldemort's body had been. There was a whistling, screaming riot of chaotic energy as remnants of the spell flew in tight orbits at mind-boggling speed, destroying any vestige of spirit that might have survived the body's total eradication. As the dazzling effect of the light-flash faded, and Harry regained his sight, he could see that the excess energy of his spell had smashed out the wall behind the place Voldemort had stood, and had carved a long tunnel deep into the rock behind. Distantly, Harry could hear alarms sounding, as security spells throughout the huge house all went off simultaneously. He knew he had to leave, but he could not force himself to move. Remus was dead. Voldemort had killed someone else Harry had loved. Harry felt that his victory was a very hollow one for that.

A sudden motion caught his eye. He raised his wand, ready to cast another spell, when - unbelievably - Remus came running out of the control centre. "Stop! Harry, wait! Don't do it!" Harry blinked, he squinted. He tried his best to determine if this could possibly be another trick. But it wasn't. Remus was alive! "It was a boggart, Harry. A boggart!" Harry's heart fell, once again. He hadn't killed Voldemort after all. He was a failure.

Snape stepped through the ruined workout room door. "We must leave," he insisted. "The alarms that are currently sounding will alert Ministry officials that something untoward is happening in this house. If we do not wish to waste our time dealing with a myriad of useless questions put to us by useless buffoons in the employ of the Ministry of Magic, we must make haste. Now!"

They hurried. On the way, Snape was able to explain that - in a manner similar to Hogwarts - apparation into and out of Malfoy Manor was strictly controlled by wards and complex charms. Lucius could come and go almost freely, Snape believed, but even Narcissa had to leave the house to apparate, and usually made sure she was off the grounds altogether before doing so. As the three companions sealed the library exit to the underground corridor behind themselves, they could hear pounding on the front door, which they were sure would soon be followed by forced entry. They had probably lost their testing facility. It would probably not be safe to return to Malfoy Manor again. But Harry felt that, with the spell he had cast when he believed that he was facing Voldemort, he had passed the magical ability test with flying colors.


	6. Chapter 6

Once again, thank you all for your generous feedback. And Please – Don't be afraid to be critical. Sincere expressions of concern over the way I am treating these valuable characters from which we have all gained so much enjoyment do not constitute "flames." They are genuine concerns which all of us who work in this genre must keep in mind.

Chapter 6

"Arthur, I believe we may have a problem. Sherbet lemon?" The Headmaster of Hogwarts sat behind his immense desk, the top of which was covered in a baffling array of tiny devices, ranging from sneakoscopes to kitschy items so tastelessly precious that advertisements for them were not even accepted by Witch Weekly. The Headmaster's trademark candy dishes were also present, but Arthur had never enjoyed snacking on anything as sweet as the treats Dumbledore's candy selection usually featured.

"No, thank you, Albus," Arthur Weasley said cheerfully. "And really, I don't think this Malfoy situation merits putting the entire Order of the Phoenix on alert."

"I disagree, Arthur," Dumbledore murmured, tapping his fingers against one another. "It's not just that they've left the house... I might have expected that, with the Ministry so rabidly drooling over Lucius' personal effects. That is... present company excepted, of course... I don't believe you drool rabidly, Arthur. But many of your... colleagues... do. So leaving the Manor would make perfect sense for both of them, mother and child. The difficulty is... they're nowhere to be found. Locator charms have been cast all over Britain to no avail. Owls have been sent, and have returned, exhausted and confused, with the missives addressed to the Malfoys still attached. Invitations have been issued, and have remained unreplied to. Which is the most surprising of all. No one with Narcissa's... ahhh... social involvement simply ignores the biggest and most important gatherings of the year. The wealthiest families in wizard Britain are presuming that Narcissa Malfoy will not be attending their soirees this summer. Now, what do you make of that?"

Mister Weasley sighed, and concentrated on keeping his reply polite. "I believe that Narcissa Malfoy has become rather used to being regarded in a comparatively positive light, especially in contrast to her husband. Lucius accomplished what he needed to do through threats and intimidation. He was sarcastic, unsympathetic and frankly frightening. By contrast, when people at even the highest levels of society thought of Narcissa, they thought of her as beautiful, charming, tasteful and a gracious hostess. If Narcissa appeared in public at all before... or during... or even immediately after her husband's trial, she would instead be seen as the wife of the traitor, or poor Narcissa who lost everything, or something equally abhorrent to her. And the tragedy would reflect on her son, as well. Why give people a chance to cement their negative impressions by mingling with them now?"

"But why go into hiding... unless they are planning something that ought to concern our Order?" Dumbledore asked with a sly smile. "This is, after all, the wife and son of Voldemort's closest follower and most powerful servant."

"From what the Ministry has been able to learn," Arthur said patiently, "Narcissa has not been involved with her husband's political activities for years."

"From what the Ministry was able to learn, Voldemort was defeated a generation ago, he had no chance of returning, and Death Eaters posed us no threat," Dumbledore countered. "Besides, do you not consider parties a political tool?"

"Not for the caterer," Arthur said sourly. "And for the past twelve years or more, Narcissa has been the pretty face and elegant voice of the official greeter... and nothing more. And as you should know better than any of us, Albus: Draco is not the wizard his father is.

"But both of the Malfoys have reason to hate the Ministry, now," Dumbledore said sadly. "And that will drive them to greater... ah... involvement than either of them has indulged in previously. Why do you imagine my locator charms - which, by the way, have been distributed from northern Scotland to the estuary of the Thames - are unable to point to them?"

"Probably because the Malfoys have had practice thwarting a real challenge lately. Namely, the paparazzi such as those employed by the Daily Prophet. In order to give those vultures the slip, the Malfoys will have had to become very clever indeed at spotting potential spies... and spying devices, and spying spells... and neutralizing them. It's not unprecedented, Albus. Entertainers have avoided the press for months at a time when something embarrassing is going on."

"Those entertainers have not had me combing the nation searching for them," the Headmaster said darkly. "The only possible explanation for my complete inability to find the Malfoys is that they are being shielded by a power nearly as great as my own. And if Lord Voldemort is sheltering the Malfoys, it is not out of kindness, or a sense of debt to his servant. The only way he would protect them is if they are providing him with a service as valuable as the one he provides in return. Your assessment of Draco Malfoy's ability is, sadly, all too true. But Narcissa is a competent magic user and a determined woman. Together, she and her son might well be able to take Lucius' place."

Arthur scowled across the wide desktop at the deceptively aged looking man opposite him. "Albus, I don't like it. Lucius had any number of government officials in his pocket. All Narcissa has is a bunch of old men who wish they could get into her pants. During the past decade, Lucius has made threats so frightening that all he needed to do was remind his victims of what he was capable of doing to them, and they were all still frightened enough to give in to his demands. During that same time, Narcissa has been welcoming, and polite, and totally in her husband's shadow. Lucius made certain to establish - within the Voldemort organization, as well as among the more general wizard population - that he was powerful and ruthless enough to use that power. Narcissa hasn't cast a spell in public since her son was born. Even if they wanted to join the Death Eaters, I'm not sure Voldemort would have them. He might even see them both as more of a liability than an asset."

"Arthur..." Dumbledore said condescendingly. "Do you really think that anyone with the Malfoy name would be considered a... liability... by Tom Riddle?"

"Yes," Arthur replied with confidence. "Especially since - when Lucius' trial is over, they will both be broke, and probably shunned by the very high society types that Voldemort used them to influence."

"And the locator spells? Where, if not with Voldemort, could the Malfoys be?"

"America?" Arthur grinned.

Dumbledore was not amused. "I am glad that at least one of us is taking this situation seriously. Lucius' trial is approaching soon and his family would hardly be likely to leave the country before a verdict is reached."

"Before a guilty verdict is reached, you mean," Arthur corrected. "The trial judges can't help but convict the man, and the government knows it. The Ministry is already dividing up the spoils of the Malfoy estate as though they were lottery winnings. We've hit the jackpot with this arrest; the trial is just a formality. Why would Malfoy's wife or son hang around for that? It's not as though Lucius is going to be given a free pass out of jail to say goodbye to his family. There will be no conjugal visits allowed prior to his execution. And Lucius isn't about to say anything that might further condemn him... or give the Ministry any clues as to where his real secrets might be hidden... so he wouldn't be very conversant even if his family went to stare at him through the bars! And with a very strong prejudice toward guilt by association running through the Ministry as the trial approaches, I wouldn't present myself at the courtroom or even for a visit with the prisoner if I were Narcissa - or Draco, for that matter. So why wouldn't they be in America?"

Dumbledore met Arthur's eyes directly. His gaze was clear and focused, without the muddled pose he often put on, nor his trademark twinkling eyes. With as much gravity as he had employed to announce the re-embodiment of Voldemort, he told Arthur, "Because they are English. They are English aristocrats, of a family whose patriarch served at the side of the wizard who nearly conquered our nation. Because their roots are English, the source of their wealth is English, and politically, socially and spiritually they are quintessentially English."

"Don't start me singing 'Erin Go Braugh,' Albus," Arthur said with some resentment.

"It would be an empty gesture if you did," the Headmaster countered. "You work for the Ministry. As much as the Ministry paints itself as an institution of Great Britain, working for a United Kingdom, it is at its heart English. Based in London, its top posts all staffed by Englishmen..."

"Now, wait a minute," Arthur interrupted with some heat. "There is such a thing as taking an opportunity wherever it's possible, no matter the nationality of the man offering the job."

Dumbledore held up his hands. "I'm not saying you're wrong to have accepted a job at the Ministry, Arthur. I am only pointing out that you are associated with the Ministry, both in the fact of your employment and in people's minds. And surely you, of all people, must realize what dangers that kind of politicized association poses for you and your family. The Malfoys will hate you for being a Ministry worker as much as for any of the other things they hate about you. I also believe this about the Malfoys. If the Ministry takes Narcissa's husband and Draco's father, those two will not run with their tails between their legs. They will take revenge. Their primary target will be Fudge, of course. But if I were you, I wouldn't rest easy until they are both captured. As a ministry official, and a perpetual thorn in Lucius' side, you will have a target painted on yourself, as well."

"I disagree, Albus," Arthur said seriously. "I take special precautions to keep my family safe, because it doesn't take a high-profile criminal to pose a threat to someone like me. Anyone who disapproves of our policy toward muggle artifacts might decide to take out his frustration on the government official he feels is deserving of some sort of punishment. As the man in charge of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office, I am that man. So I do take precautions. But do the Malfoys hold some special grudge against me? No, they don't. The lot of them are too self-centered to care about someone as unimportant to their society as I am. In my daily work, I see people like the Malfoys all the time. Not as rich. Not as famous. Not accused of as spectacular a series of crimes. But people that are just like them in all the important ways. And I mark the Malfoys as runners, Albus, just like the people I often have to prosecute for repeated - though admittedly more minor - infractions of the law. I'd say that Narcissa and Draco are name changers. Hair dyers, glamour casters and contact-lens wearers. People like the Malfoys, when their cases are small time, say: 'Let's wait until this blows over. We'll stay in hiding until then.' There's no blowing over for this case. There's only starting over. Narcissa had a little money. Probably enough to buy a house. I'll bet that's exactly what she's done"

"But the locator spells, Arthur. They didn't work!"

"Did you set them to find someone who was named Narcissa Malfoy? Or Draco Malfoy?" Arthur asked, his face suspiciously innocent. He waited for Dumbledore to deny it. When the Headmaster made no comment, Arthur nodded slowly and said, "No wonder. They have changed their names. They probably found many occasions to use their new names as soon as they arrived in their new residence, to cement their new identities both in their communities and within their own minds. Introduced themselves to the locals, got hooked up to the muggle utilities, put in a notice of their arrival at the post office. As you can tell, I'm betting they're living in a muggle neighborhood. Why? Because they disappear from our view so much more quickly that way. Narcissa Malfoy no longer exists. Neither does Draco. They're probably Nancy and Douglas Murphy, now."

Albus grimaced at the thought, but persisted in trying to enlist Arthur's aid. "That's where the Order comes in," he insisted. "If we cannot find the individuals we seek by magical methods, old fashioned detective work becomes necessary."

Arthur studied the man sitting across the desk from him. Albus Dumbledore was one of the great heroes of the wizard world, and Arthur was proud to be associated with him. But the man had a definite tendency toward monomania. "You know Albus," Arthur said thoughtfully. "One of Tom Riddle's great failings was that he didn't know when he was beaten. You have the opposite problem. I don't think you can recognize when you have won. Narcissa and Draco Malfoy are living under assumed names in the muggle world on Narcissa's meagre personal savings. Even a witch's lifetime is not long enough for her to battle her way back to the heights of the wealthy society she has become used to. And what is Draco going to do if he is unable to finish his last two years of school? His life in the magical community is over. He is a non-issue. Please, Albus. Don't involve the Order in this hunt for two pathetic, broken people. It's not worth our time."

"Arthur," Dumbledore said, unrelenting. "I want you to contact the rest of the Order and let them know we must find these two vengeful, resourceful people. It is the most important thing we can do at this time."

"The Order of the Phoenix is not an army," Arthur said, eyes focused far away. "We are more like an association of Paladins. Each one of us uniquely talented, and particularly powerful - each in our own way. We come together because we may accomplish more in association with one another than we would be able to singly. Essentially, however, we are independents. You do not issue us orders."

"Then I beg you. Please. In honor of the years I have spent fighting Voldemort. In memory of the extensive experience I have with his methods and his peculiarities. In recognition of my own effectiveness in defeating him in the past. Please, Arthur. Contact the Order. Help me to organize them. Let us find these two missing people. They might, as you say, turn out to be no threat. But - they might turn out to be a lethal part of the Dark Lord's plot. Please."

Arthur thought about leaving without giving any answer. He thought about refusing to have anything to do with this particular search. He thought of resigning from the Order altogether. In the end, it was his respect for Dumbledore's years of effort to defeat their common enemy that swayed him. "I'll tell everyone. I'll ask them to get together and discuss ways and means of finding the as yet unfindable Malfoys. But don't expect me to be able to argue them all into participating. If they have questions, I'll have them get in touch with you."

"Excellent," Dumbledore said with satisfaction. "I will speak with Mister Lupin and Professor Snape. They are both here on school grounds. Their primary duty is guarding Harry Potter. He was attacked just outside our own greenhouses, you know."

"No, I didn't," Arthur said, concern clear on his face. "What happened."

"Oh, students on broomsticks," the Headmaster said, waving away Arthur's worry. "They even wore their school robes. It had all the markings of a classic quiddich grudge. Caramel cluster? No? Well, then Arthur, I thank you for your efforts. Say hello to your wife for me, won't you?"

--- --- ---

The Headmaster descended to the dungeons immediately after Arthur Weasley left. When he told his plan to Snape, the potions professor stared back in puzzled silence for a long time before saying anything. "Draco? My student. From my House."

"And a friend, as well. I realize that you have a fondness for the boy, and that you were friends with his mother before her marriage to Lucius," Albus said gently. "But the threat they pose now is very grave. We must take it seriously."

Snape's question was unchanged. "Draco?"

"And his mother," Dumbledore urged.

"Headmaster, Draco is a good student. By which I mean, he pays attention, does his assignments, and - for the most part - follows instructions. If he had two more years of successful schooling I might allow that he could develop into a competent adult wizard. Which is something he is not, at this time."

"I fear that it is his potential... and his bloodline... that Voldemort will value," Albus insisted.

"You realize," Snape warned, "that this will involve me... and Lupin... and, by necessity, Harry Potter... all spending a lot of time off-campus in our evening hours?"

"I do," the Headmaster confirmed, and it was all Snape could do to show no reaction.

"Fine," he replied curtly. "We'll search. With the boy."

"Thank you, Severus," Albus said, and left the dungeons.

--- --- ---

The afternoon's surprises were not over for Snape, however. Minutes after Dumbledore had left, Severus felt the painful summons of the Dark Lord. He rushed to an apparation point and transported himself into the presence of Voldemort.

The Dark Lord was agitated. He was pacing his throne room as Severus appeared.

"Well?" Voldemort snapped as soon as the noise of apparation faded. "You brought me young Crabbe days ago. Where is Draco Malfoy?"

"The Malfoys have fled, My Lord," Severus reported, standing at rigid attention.

"Fled?" Voldemort's inability to understand was almost comical. Snape reminded himself of the consequences of giving offense, and was able to contain his mirth.

"Lucius is already convicted by the Ministry, My Lord. He merely awaits a judge's gavel and the particulars of sentencing to seal his fate. The remaining Malfoys apparently fear government persecution. So fearing, they have gone into hiding."

"Well, find them."

"My search so far has revealed that they are no longer in Great Britain. Also, Albus Dumbledore is searching for them as intently as am I. He fears that you will be able to make use of them both. They may well fear Dumbledore as much as they fear the Ministry."

"Then bring me someone," Voldemort ordered petulantly. "Zabini, perhaps."

"I cannot be certain of Zabini's loyalty, My Lord. His intentions are very suspect."

"Someone else, then! I must begin to rebuild my youth base. My forces are aging, and being lost to attrition. Bring one of your Slytherin brats."

"Until term begins, I cannot approach any of the students without raising suspicions..."

"Are you making excuses to me?" Voldemort bellowed, spittle flying in his anger.

"I am giving reasons, My Lord. I can approach students without using proper discretion, or we may delay our progress for several weeks, when all of the students will be available to me once again, and I may bring them into your presence without undue attention from unwanted observers."

"Fine," the Dark Lord pouted. "But when term begins, we had better develop our new alliances quickly. I need manpower, Severus."

Voldemort had long ascribed to the 'silence equals agreement' principle. Unless there was something substantive to add, Death Eaters were to accept their Lord's statements stoicly. It would have offended him if Snape had expressed his agreement. But once the Lord had made his pronouncement, a new subject could be broached. "My Lord," Snape said, and waited for the slight nod that indicated permission to speak. "A new opportunity has presented itself at Hogwarts. The Herbology professor has resigned. It occurs to me that you have someone loyal to you who might take that position."

Voldemort looked lost for a while as he ran through his mental list of followers, trying to recall who Severus might have in mind. Then a slow grin spread across his face. "Young Aaron."

Snape wanted to make sure there was no mistake. "Aaron Sepal is sixty-seven years old, My Lord," he said cautiously.

"He's a wizard," Voldemort snapped. "He's just entering his prime. He'll do. I'll contact him, Severus. The less connection between the two of you there is, the better. Thank you for that bit of information. You have helped me. Now, begone."

Gratefully, Snape apparated back to the outskirts of Hogwarts' property. Somehow, he had survived another meeting with Voldemort. And for the first time, he had not merely obfuscated in such a meeting... he had lied directly to the Dark Lord. Snape had no intention of bringing Draco nor Narcissa into Voldemort's presence. And somehow, miraculously, he had managed to both mask that attitude and avoid betraying the Malfoys' whereabouts. He had lied carefully and, he hoped, cleverly. He had lied only by ommission. He had allowed some truth to season his lies. But he had lied. Directly to Voldemort. And had survived. For the first time, he began to believe that his desperate plan might have some chance of success.

--- --- ---

The next morning, Harry reported for work early once again, hoping to do the best job he was able to do for his professor. The day's work consisted of feeding and watering various plants, and leaving others unfed or unwatered according to a strict schedule. Harry had brought parchment and a quill, and he wrote and wrote and wrote, making his notes as specific as he could, and trying very hard to keep the list neat enough to be able to refer to all summer long. He was glad that the carnivorous plants had been fed before he started his summer's employment. Those plants received their food infrequently, but the particulars of feeding each type were highly detailed and confusing. He would need Neville's advice when it was time to feed them again. Harry's mind was reeling with the tremendous amount of information he had tried to cram into it all morning by the time Professor Sprout gave him permission to break for lunch. Remus met Harry at the greenhouse door and offered to accompany him to the dining hall, where the Hogwarts house elves would be glad to provide a meal, even if only two were on hand to enjoy it. Harry shrugged, trying not to show his annoyance. Remus had been prowling the Herbology grounds around the greenhouses all morning, and had been quite distracting for Harry. Several times, he was certain that he had spotted a potential attacker, only to realize that it was actually his own protector, patrolling the area to keep him safe. "I'll probably be reading these notes all during the meal," he said. "There's 'way too much for me to learn, and this is just the simple stuff. Watering schedules and all that. By the time Professor Sprout is ready to leave, I'll have written my own Beginner's Herbology textbook."

Remus smiled and ruffled the boy's hair. "Do what you must," he said. "I won't mind having your company, even if your nose is buried in a parchment." They walked up to the castle, but Harry noticed that Remus never ceased his vigilance, checking the horizon for flyers, watching the bushes for shadows, listening intently for any approach of danger. It was disconcerting to Harry to realize how much effort the man was putting into looking out for him. And it spoiled the illusion of casual relaxation that Remus maintained in his posture and easy conversation.

The house elves, frustrated at having so few people to appreciate their efforts during the season between terms, created a fabulous feast for the two who did show up for lunch. A banquet-quality bouef wellington was the main course, and for Remus, it was accompanied by a glass of rich, dark cabernet sauvignon.

About halfway through lunch, during which Harry had been concentrating on his food so intently he had spared not a glance for the parchment at his side, the owl arrived. It was the tiny Errol, struggling under the weight of the short missive tied to his leg. Harry retrieved the letter, poured the tired owl some water, and read. It was from Ron.

_Harry,_

_I heard Dad telling Mom that you had been attacked at school._

_It sounds like Malfoy... they were talking about him, too, but_

_I didn't get everything about that. What is happening up there?_

_Why haven't we heard from you? Ginny is particularly pissed_

_that you haven't written - I think she expected a personal letter_

_from you just for her. Sneak out and visit if you can. How close_

_can they be watching you, anyway? Or write and tell us if you_

_got hurt or something. Got to go. Garden gnomes need tossing._

_See you soon, (I hope),_

_Ron._

How close can they be watching me? Harry was irritated. If Ron only knew. Magic Eye, then Remus following him around all day. Sneak out? Fat chance.

--- --- ---

That evening, Harry was not surprised to find Remus waiting for him at the greenhouse exit. He was surprised to learn that he and Remus, along with Professor Snape, were going off-campus again - this time on Dumbledore's direct orders. He was even more surprised when Remus told him that the object of their expedition was to locate Draco Malfoy.

"What does Dumbledore want me to do with Malfoy?" Harry grumbled. "Kill him?"

"Now, Harry, you know your Headmaster doesn't work that way," Remus scolded teasingly. "Don't you think he would much prefer it if you confused the lad so thoroughly that he would be unable to function normally?"

Harry laughed at the image of a confused Draco, stumbling through life as though caught in a mirror maze. But within a matter of mere steps, he had sobered again, and turned toward Remus, clearly burning to say something he could not bring himself to put voice to.

Under the pretense of smothering a cough, Remus put his finger over his lips. Harry nodded once and rushed ahead of the man to put his unruly stack of notes away in his room. Before he got too far, though, he turned back and called, "Muggle clothes?" Remus smiled and shrugged, and Harry rushed up the stairway.

The Fat Lady was outraged by this reckless behavior. "Still dashing about without concern for your own safety, my boy? It is so nice to have a handsome young man passing through my portal all summer long. It would be a shame if you were to slip and crush yourself to jelly on the unyielding stones of the castle floor. But you just don't learn, do you? Well, for that, you shall have to memorize a new password."

"All right," Harry said, barely paying attention to the tirade coming from the portrait. The Fat Lady had become increasingly chatty with each day that passed after regular term. He supposed that with so few people in the castle, a sociable portrait such as she was might have gotten lonely. She did maintain the entrance to the entire Gryffindor tower during the term, and saw literally hundreds of students every day. And as he came to think of it, most of the portraits - especially in the Gryffindor area of the castle - seemed to be rather crotchety and ill tempered. There may have been an isolated fun-loving individual or two among them, but as for the entire community, Harry imagined that there were few pleasant choices for any sort of decent socialization. So he had learned to wait for a while every time he came through, and listen to the Fat Lady for a bit. On this particular occasion, he used the opportunity to straighten his notes so they would be easier to put away once he got inside.

"The password is, as so many of you children are," The Fat Lady announced, with the air of someone imparting an important lesson she suspected would be ignored, "Oblivious!"

"Right," Harry said distractedly. "Oblivious. Thanks!" The portrait swung open, and Harry rushed to his room to put away his daytime things and change clothes.

He was back out again in minutes. "Enjoy your walk," the Fat Lady said pointedly. Then, "Don't run!" she snapped as Harry rushed away.

Harry caught himself, turned back to face the portrait and, very sweetly, said, "Thanks for caring." He turned back away and walked down the stairway, leaving the Fat Lady with her hand resting lightly over her heart, a look of beaming pride on her face.

Harry and Remus met Snape at the front entrance, and wordlessly began the long walk across the grounds. At first, Harry thought that Snape was merely angry again - a common enough mood for him - but there was more to it than that. He seemed on edge, as though about to do something very dangerous. Was Draco a real threat? Or was it his mother? Harry really had no idea of what Narcissa Malfoy was capable of. Perhaps Snape had a perfectly good reason to be nervous.

Cautiously, so as not to sound mocking, Harry said, "I thought Draco was out of the country."

Snape sneered at him, which was about what Harry had expected. But he also offered some explanation. "The Headmaster has seen fit to ignore my opinions regarding this matter, as he has chosen to ignore the opinions of Arthur Weasley, and - so far as I can tell - the opinions of everyone to whom he has spoken about it. Professor Dumbledore is convinced that the Malfoys are not out of the country, but are somewhere within its borders. Since they are here - and not responding to polite inquiries at the moment - the Headmaster has decided that both of them are plotting the overthrow of the free world. Since his locator charms have already failed, and it hardly makes sense to go door to door without a competent search team and a warrant, we are left with canvassing the places that missing Malfoys might go, and interviewing people such as those the missing Malfoys might have spoken with. It would be a colossal waste of time, except that Mister Lupin and I have found in you a talent worth developing. Remus will explain. I must take care of some pressing business." And he turned at right angles to the path and strode off into the nearby trees. After a short while, Harry could hear the resounding 'crack' of apparation. Remus strolled along as though nothing untoward had occurred.

"What... what was... " Harry stuttered, unsure of how to ask about Snape's 'pressing business.'

Remus was very thoughtful. "Your Professor Snape has a very hard job. He spies on Voldemort for Dumbledore... you know about that, after last term. He also spies on Dumbledore for Voldemort. Otherwise, the Dark Lord would never allow him to work at Hogwarts. The paradox is that both Dumbledore and Voldemort know that Snape is a double agent. Neither one of them is stupid, and both understand politics and espionage very well. Each of them uses Snape to plague the other, and neither one cares how hard that is on the man caught in the middle. Severus has worked very hard against Voldemort. And, I must presume that - since Voldemort hasn't killed him yet - he must have done quite a lot of work on the Dark Lord's behalf. And, he works very hard at being a good teacher. Yes, I know," Remus stopped the sarcastic comment before Harry could make it. "But I have seen his planning, the preparations he goes through, and the way he continues to stay up to date on his discipline so that he can present the best - if, perhaps the most difficult - class in Hogwarts' curriculum. So your Professor Snape is working three jobs, each one harder than most peoples' single job. He does it knowing that he may be punished by the government, or by the Death Eaters, at any time, without warning. He does this knowing that even if the side of good does win, that very victory will mean that one-third of his labors have gone for nothing. And he is too intelligent and knowledgeable of history to remain ignorant of the ultimate fate of double agents at the end of every war. The winning side kills them. They have to. The double agent may have helped bring about the victory - but they were also spies for the enemy. Besides, how can you trust someone who has already worked for two opposing sides? For that reason alone, double agents either flee the country they worked for... or they are executed. There are no exceptions of which I am aware."

"Then... Snape doesn't want either side to win," Harry said with a confused glance up at Remus.

"For all his sarcasm and ill-humor," Remus said sadly, "Severus is an idealist. I am embarrassed that I did not understand this sooner, but it was as true in his school days as it is now. And yet, Severus is too intelligent to simply cheer for one side or the other, as though the future of our world was a sporting match. He is intensely interested in finding a solution to the many problems that plague us - and in finding alternatives to the limited choices we seem to have for solving them. And that is were you come in, my boy."

"I don't think Snape sees me as a part of any solution he would want," Harry said.

"Harry, I think you have to learn who your friends are. Part of any serious fight is knowing who will be there to back you up. Professor Snape is a powerful and valuable friend."

"You're my friend. I'm sure of that," Harry said, but at the same time, he could visualize his other friends fading away from him. Neville, resentfully begrudging him his summer job. Ron and Hermione, busy with one another. Ron, especially: 'Sneak out and come visit.' What immature rot! What was he thinking? Harry's most painful thought was of Sirius - his godfather - who was lost to him forever.

"Severus Snape is a better friend than you are aware," Remus insisted. "Think of our magical test. Severus took us to the one place where you could have done that."

Harry's face immediately fell. "I thought I had killed Voldemort. As usual, something horrible had to happen - I thought you were dead. But I really believed... for a second or two... that I had done it. That he was gone, completely. Then I find that it was just a boggart. It was like thinking I'd killed a giant, only to find out it was a fly instead."

"Harry," Remus chided. "Do you have any idea what you did in that room?" Harry merely looked confused again, so Lupin began to review, ticking points off on his fingers. "First, you destroyed the boggart. No, don't groan, most people can subdue a boggart, and put it in a container. A group of people who know what they are doing can destroy one. But only in certain ways. Violent spells usually feed boggarts, not hurt them. Laughter, and the Ridikulus spell - those are harmful to boggarts, but even then, when the laughter is loudest, and the spells perfectly cast, all that happens to the boggarts is that they sort of... fizzle out. They fade, they dissipate. You blew that one into a fine mist! And then destroyed the mist! There wasn't even any boggart goo left behind to dirty one's fingers on. You completely, utterly eradicated it. I would have

been impressed if you had done that to a fly, let alone a giant. But a boggart... that's impressive! But that was only the introduction to what you did. That room was especially made to withstand the most violent spell that Lucius Malfoy could ever possibly cast. There were two layers on top of the reinforced walls of that room. One layer that was magic reflective, and a layer beneath that one that was magic absorbing. Imagine that you are working out in a gymnasium with walls that are plated with steel, but filled with rubber. If you manage to hit the wall hard enough to pierce the steel, the rubber will bounce your blow back into the room where you are standing. But when you cast your spell against the boggart you believed to be Voldemort, you not only evaporated the magic-reflective layer, and destroyed the magic-absorbing layer - you smashed through the reinforced concrete and dug a tunnel deep into the solid rock surroundings! That room was shock-protected well enough to contain a dynamite explosion, and you set off every alarm in the house above. Do you have any idea how much power something like that requires?"

Harry did not.

"Let me put it this way. I don't believe that either Albus Dumbledore - or Tom Riddle - could do what you did."

"So you think I could beat Voldemort in a duel?" Harry asked immediately.

"Harry, I said you had to learn who your friends were. You also need to know who your enemies are. Part of any real fight is knowing who is going to appear on the field once your primary adversary is down."

Harry thought hard, but could see only advantages in that respect. "Lucius Malfoy is in jail - and might be executed," he mused.

"Lucius is a minion," Remus interrupted harshly. "Learn your enemies. If you are thinking about Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle... all of those are minions. Your enemy in that case is Voldemort. You need to think more deeply... and wider."

"But Voldemort has always been my enemy. He killed my parents, he tried to kill me. He killed Cedric, and tried to kill Ginny. He... He's the one, my real enemy," Harry said desperately.

"What is your relationship to the government?" Remus' question was very quiet. Harry shook his head, not following the logic. "hem-hem," Remus coughed, clearing his throat.

Harry's eyes went wide. His hand began to ache. The disasters of last term came flooding back. Dolores Umbridge. The interference of the Ministry in the operation of the school. Fudge's accusations that Harry was a liar, or mentally incompetent...

"Fudge is the leader, the focus, the symbol of much that is wrong with the way we are governed today," Remus said casually. "But he has his minions, just as does the Dark Lord who would supplant him. Umbridge... even persnickety Percy Weasley, though I think he is more misguided than truly evil. But Fudge in particular, and the government organization as it stands beneath his leadership, is an enemy as powerful and clever as Voldemort himself. More powerful, and cleverer, in their way, since they can be public, and meddle in everyone's affairs very openly, rather than operating in secret like old Tom Riddle."

"But Fudge... I mean, the Minister of Magic... He's elected. By the people," Harry fumbled, unused to political conversation.

"Is he?" Remus challenged immediately. "Who employs the ballot-counters... oh, yes. That would be the Ministry. Mmmm... Fudge hasn't ever lost an election. And God knows I've never voted for him. Can you think of anyone who would?"

"Percy Weasley," Harry offered.

"Self-interest. Percy believes the Minister actually knows who he is. He's hoping to rise to a real political career, our Percy is. I believe that he will forever be frustrated in that ambition... but that's just my cynical nature coming through. Seriously, Harry, I believe that if you consider Voldemort enemy number one, you have to consider the current existing government of Wizard Britain - at least as it is under Minister Fudge - enemy number two."

Harry didn't want to believe it. He had planned for so long to kill Voldemort that in his mind, once that goal had been accomplished, everything would be better. People would be happier and healthier, they would treat each other with greater consideration, there would be an era of prosperity and progress. Everyone's dreams would be so much closer to coming true... But now, Remus had to remind him that taking care of one problem only allowed the opportunity to go on to the next one. Voldemort was a problem. Eliminate him, and something else would rise up to plague you. But was that next problem really the government? It might be… Harry hated Umbridge, and he had no respect for Fudge. It would have been easier to view the Ministry of Magic as a terrible opponent if he had actually hated Fudge. But when compared to Voldemort, Fudge was just such a... nothing. "I don't know, Remus. Voldemort's easy to hate. It's hard to get really worked up over Fudge."

"Then you need more time to realize what real problems are facing you," Remus said easily. "Besides, if you have difficulty thinking of Fudge as your enemy, you'll need a while to wrap your mind around your biggest problem."

Harry wondered what problem could be bigger than Voldemort. The Dursleys? They were ridiculous by comparison. His schooling and future career had always been his major secondary 'problem' after Voldemort. He took his school work as it came, term by term. He had thought that he was doing pretty well until Remus had started talking about the days of early N.E.W.T.s and Advanced Studies for sixth-years. His career? He could see himself playing quiddich for a few years, but once he began to grow heavy and slow... then what? That was a problem. "What else could there be?" he asked, thinking he was ready to discuss any possibility Remus might suggest.

"Albus Dumbledore," Remus said, and watched Harry's reaction.

Harry thought hard. Dumbledore had placed him with the Dursleys... that was hard to forgive. But against that, how much good had the man done? He had made it possible for Remus to attend school. He had saved Sirius' life... his soul, come to think of it. And he had managed to save Buckbeak the hippogriff in the bargain. He had given Hagrid a job, had founded the Order of the Phoenix... "No," Harry said thoughtfully. "I don't see it. What's wrong with him?"

"Not so much what he's done," Remus admitted, "as the way he's gone about it. Very controlling, very manipulative, is Dumbledore. When you do defeat Voldemort, Dumbledore is ready to step in as soon as he's sure his old enemy is gone for good. He'll take credit for your victory, for having you ready to fight in the first place. And by that, he'll take control: first of public opinion, then of public policy."

"Better him than Fudge," Harry snorted.

"Is it?" Remus waited for an answer, but Harry only watched expectantly. "All right. Think about the way he told you of Professor Sprout's resignation. Did he tell you the truth?"

Harry was caught there. Professor Sprout had been furious when she had heard what Dumbledore had said. "No," Harry admitted

"And what about the way he got you into this summer job?" Remus continued.

"We've already talked about that. I don't like it, but... he couldn't have two students staying at the castle over the summer. I threatened him, forced him to take me..."

"Harry," Remus' voice was deadly serious. This was the central point he had to make. "He says he couldn't have two of you. Let me ask you: Is there enough work for two pair of hands in the Herbology department this summer?"

"Oh, yeah," Harry said immediately. "There's loads that I'll never get to. Two of us could be totally busy and still not get through all... the.... uh, Remus? What is it?"

"More than enough work for two," Remus concluded. "So, why not hire two of you? Only one reason. To get you to participate in a lie, and in cheating your friend of an opportunity. Which, incidentally, also put an extra hardship on one of your teachers. In plain speech, Harry: Albus did what he did in order to corrupt you. Which gave him an extra hold over you. And kept another powerful student from advancing quite so fast as otherwise he would. That kind of manipulation is characteristic of the kind of plan Voldemort usually hatches; and it's not too different from some of the things Fudge has done. And when I mentioned confusing Draco in the castle tonight, you had something you wanted to say to me."

Harry was almost embarrassed to admit it now. "I had wanted to say that's what Dumbledore does to me. Keeps me confused. It's hard to say why I thought that, now. Something about having to stay at the Dursleys... but... I'm sorry. I'm afraid I don't really have a very good argument."

"Which is exactly the effect one would expect if you had been kept confused and ignorant and in a weakened condition all your life. Think about it."

Harry did think about it. He remained silent and thought about it as he walked, so preoccupied that he was nearly blind to the path before him. The two were nearly to Hogsmead when he said, "All I wanted to do was kill Voldemort. Now you have me planning to take over the world."

"The world is not a single entity that can be held at one point," Remus replied, not reacting as though Harry's suggestion was ridiculous in the least. "Voldemort has followers. If their Lord is destroyed, any one of those followers could become a leader - simply by pulling the leftovers of the Death Eater organization together to continue whatever evil the group had intended to accomplish. But... if someone were to replace their Lord... A wizard more powerful, and - in his own way - even more terrifying... what would happen to that organization then? The same thing applies to the government. Anyone who assassinates Corny Fudge will see another one just like him shoved into place within hours. And trying to tear the entire Ministerial structure down would be counterproductive - many services provided under Ministry auspices are necessary, and some are critical. But if someone were to take control of the entire structure..."

"That's insane," Harry stated flatly. "People wouldn't stand for it."

"Wouldn't they?" Remus prodded.

"I know Fudge is awful, and he's usually wrong, but people believe in him."

"Do they?"

"Ask! Even Dumbledore operates within the law."

"And when Dumbledore outsmarts the government, I notice people are usually quite glad about it. When Dumbledore thwarts the Ministry's will, he is essentially assuming the responsibilities of government... as it applies to him. And Voldemort believes he can take over the entire operation."

"Voldemort is mad!" Harry shouted, quite upset. "You can't copy a murderer who has to hide to keep from being killed by everyone who's not already on his side!"

"No, I suppose not," Remus sighed wistfully. "But I wonder what Professor Snape has to say on the subject. He has always been so much more practical a man than am I."

Harry was about to say that, if he were really practical, Snape would take great pleasure in sarcastically tearing apart all of Remus' suggestions. But then he thought of the magical test in Malfoy Manor, and the way Snape participated in casting silencing charms in his own dungeon to have a word with Harry out of Dumbledore's hearing. Harry walked in silence, but his mind was working furiously.

Remus had decided that, for their first evening of Malfoy hunting, the village of Hogsmeade was a perfect place to begin their search. After all, even if Narcissa might not have been particularly fond of the quaint village, Draco had always enjoyed visiting there, and that qualified Hogsmeade as a place in which missing Malfoys might be found. By unspoken mutual consent, subjects as attention-getting as Voldemort, or forcibly replacing the Minister of Magic, were dropped as soon as Remus and Harry walked into the Three Broomsticks. But there was one delicate subject that Harry wanted to broach, which he felt was innocuous enough to be discussed in public.

"Remus, the letter I got at lunch today was from Ron. He invited me to visit him at home, but... I'm supposed to make it as easy as possible for you to keep me safe... er... that is, I'm supposed to make it easy for Snape to keep me safe, and for you to help him... uh... do that."

"So, to make it easy for the two of us to keep you safe, the Headmaster has sent you out to hunt missing Malfoys with us. Off-campus, and straight into the lair of the - supposedly - treason plotting conspirators. Come on, Harry. If that's not enough of a sign that Albus is aging quickly, I can't imagine what is. And actually, compared to the witch hunt we're on, visiting the Burrow would be safe as houses for you. I don't see why we couldn't... Oh. Two butterbeers, please." Remus told the waitress, who gave him a flirtatious smile before going to retrieve their order. Harry thought she made rather a production of leaning over the bar to retrieve the mugs, but if she had intended to make an impression on Remus, she was to be disappointed. Lupin's attention was on the doorway, where a disheveled and breathless Severus Snape had just pushed his way into the pub. He stopped immediately inside the entrance, and pushed back his greasy hair, then straightened his robes. Taking a couple of deep breaths allowed him time to search the room for Remus, and to return to his usual appearance of disciplined self-control. He walked to their table regally, and sat without comment.

"Trouble?" Remus asked.

"For someone else," Snape drawled. "There was a matter of wrist-slapping to be done. No further need to be concerned over it."

"Good. Harry wants to arrange a visit to the Weasleys' home," Remus informed him brightly, as though discussing any normal summer vacation.

Snape closed his eyes and drew in a long-suffering breath. "Does this mean," he said with disgust, "that I will be expected to... chaperone the lad?"

"No, I don't think so," Remus reassured him.

"This had better not turn into one of your disasters, Potter," Snape threatened.

"No, Sir," Harry replied contritely, but beneath his serious expression, he was elated. He might have some fun this summer after all.

The waitress stopped at their table in the midst of rushing to put an order in for another party, caught Remus' eye, grinned mischievously at him, then turned her attention to Snape. "Can I get you anything?"

Harry wondered if Snape understood the concept of eating or drinking for pleasure. The potions master was normally so grim about every aspect of life, even scowling at the sumptuous Hogwarts' feasts, that the boy doubted whether Snape had ever enjoyed a snack just for fun. For his part, Remus had never seen Severus imbibe anything stronger than pumpkin juice. So it took both of them by surprise when Snape succinctly ordered. "Scotch. Double. Neat." As the waitress began to back away, Snape clarified his order even further. "I would like to remind you that 'neat' indicates that the drink shall contain no ice."

"No ice?" the waitress repeated, taken aback by her customer's insistent manner.

"Frozen water. Usually prepared in cubes for use in bars," Snape explained, exactly as he would explain a point in class when his students were being particularly thickheaded.

"I know what ice is," the waitress replied, annoyed.

"Excellent," Snape replied, taking no notice of her annoyance. "Please inspect my glass carefully for its presence. If ice has touched the beverage, please do not merely pick it out. Please return any glass that has contained any ice at all to the bartender, for a replacement, prepared properly." The waitress had any number of glib responses to such insolence, but the hawk nosed man with the cold voice did not take his gaze off of her, and she decided she would rather be away from that particular table right away. As she left, Snape turned to Harry and studied him intently, until the boy squirmed under the unrelenting stare. "I hope that summer visits have not been the sole subject discussed this evening," Severus drawled.

Harry looked uncomfortable, and immediately glanced around the room. Remus leaned back in his chair and looked askance at the potions professor. "Severus, I don't think you give the Three Broomsticks enough credit. This isn't some unsophisticated place, you know. I'll bet you would have gotten your scotch perfectly ice-free by simply ordering it."

Snape curled his lip at the werewolf. "The influence of the Americans is everywhere, Lupin, from the way food is prepared practically everywhere except Hogwarts, to entertainment, to what young people wear. You would be surprised to see who is placing ice in his whiskey these days."

"Not old 'You -Know-Who?'," Remus grinned.

Harry interrupted the men, clearly agitated. "This isn't a very good place to continue any discussion about -" His eyes widened and he stopped speaking abruptly as the waitress returned with Snape's drink.

Severus accepted the glass and tasted it without looking at it first. Remus noted with interest the way Snape's eyes closed and his whole face relaxed at the taste of the Scotch. "Thank you," the potions master said sincerely, and nodded to the waitress in recognition - and dismissal. He took another tiny sip of the drink, then set the glass down on the table very softly. He opened his eyes and turned them on Harry. "One of the advantages of being so irredeemably unpleasant is that people in public places ignore someone such as myself. Even those whose livelihood depends on serving me will forget my table, and return to it as little as possible throughout my stay here.

Harry felt his face heat as the blood rushed to his cheeks. He wouldn't have told his professor that he was unpleasant, but now that Snape had brought up the subject himself, it was all Harry could do to avoid shouting, 'You certainly are unpleasant,' or something even more explicitly insulting. Instead, he tried to calm himself, and quietly said, "We talked about a lot of things that I don't think we should mention if people are around. Whether they're shunning you or not."

Snape did not argue, but sat back to enjoy the remainder of his drink. "Then our discussion will have to wait until we are on our way back," he said, and turned his attention to observing the other patrons of the pub.

Harry wished he could have had a narration explaining what his teacher was seeing. The man watched people carefully, and with a great deal of interest, without drawing undue attention to himself. But without any clue as to what the man was learning from his observations, Harry found his attention drifting. He was impatient to get back to the serious part of the conversation, but equally certain that it was unsafe to continue it in his current setting. At the same time, he dreaded what was to come during that discussion. From what Remus had already mentioned, anything Snape brought up was sure to be filled with plans that involved danger with a high risk of failure. So Harry looked around the pub, watching people and wondering how well he was observing when compared to his potions professor.

As the three companions left the pub together, Severus asked Remus, "Did you see any missing Malfoys?"

"No, I did not."

"Were you looking?"

"I certainly was."

"Well, then, our official business is concluded." He turned his piercing stare upon Harry. "And what about you? Did you see the man with the artificial leg?"

Harry, expecting some question about the obviously absent Malfoys, was taken by surprise. He thought a moment, then hesitantly said, "No?"

"The prosthesis was fitted above the knee. He had adjusted to it very well, but the joint did not bend in a natural-looking manner at all. Did you see the man who was spending his last coins?"

Harry had no intention of moving past the first subject. "Why would a man wear an artificial leg? Mediwitches could regrow a limb, couldn't they?"

"Why does the Order's Mister Moody wear an artificial eye? Some injuries cannot be repaired as easily as others. Some are, in fact, permanent - at least with our current understanding of medical magic. Now answer me. Did you see the man spending his last coins?"

"Ummmm... the guy with the tattered robes?" Harry guessed.

"No." Snape looked more disappointed than nasty, and Harry actually felt worse to be on the receiving end of such a pitying assessment than he usually did when being sneered at in Potions class. "The man with the 'tattered' robes was quite well-heeled, at least as far as his budget for this evening's celebration was concerned. He was unconcerned about what his choices would cost him. He paid for everything he received and was counting out a rather generous tip as we walked out the door. The man with the fine black robe, who kept his new, pointed hat on a chair next to him; he was the one who counted his coins twice before he ordered his last drink, and then again after he paid for it. He thought about buying something else for quite some time - something cheaper than what he had been purchasing, I believe - but he decided against it for some reason. He was still nursing his final drink when we left. Did you see the couple ending their romantic relationship?"

Harry was completely baffled by this one. "No one broke up in there tonight. There were two couples, but both of them were..." he trailed off, thinking about what he had seen. "No," he said thoughtfully. "One of them was..." He couldn't explain it. There was nothing more than a vague impression, anyway, and that probably wouldn't have occurred to him unless Snape had suggested it. "Sorry," he said with a scowl.

"Mister Potter," Snape lectured sternly. "If you are going to lead people, you will have to become much better at watching them, and obtaining important information from what you observe. And, as foolish as I thought the idea was when first I heard it, I now believe that you are going to be leading people, and in the very near future at that." He waited for Harry to respond. The boy merely looked worried, which was a positive sign when compared to the pompous overconfidence Snape had expected. "I suppose Remus has outlined the three main obstacles you must overcome? Good. Voldemort is the easy one."

Harry glared at the potions professor. "Then why is everyone afraid to say his name?" he snapped sarcastically.

Snape's smile was cold and vicious. Harry felt a wave of pure fear in a visceral reaction to that look before he could remind himself that Remus was here, and that Snape was - supposedly - on their side. Severus relished this particular part of his explanation. "That very fear - and hatred - is your greatest ally. You don't have to justify killing Voldemort. Do that, and you will automatically be hailed as the great hero and liberator of the free world. If you can bring some sort of token of your victory into the public eye - a photograph of the moment of Voldemort's death, or his head on a stick, for example - people will not find it grotesque, they will feel they have even more cause for celebration. If you kill him and make sure he can never return, you will be - at least momentarily - the public's darling. And your history indicates that you can do the job. Voldemort's failure to kill you when you were a mere baby, your... crumbling... of his host when he was no more than a parasite, your destruction of his hopes for the Chamber of Secrets... even your absolute eradication of the Malfoy's training boggart... all of these things bode very well for you in your battle with the so-called Dark Lord. Which is why your attack upon him must be done last, once the remainder of your preparations are complete."

"Some of the 'preparations' Remus was talking about didn't sound particularly sane, Professor," Harry said carefully. He wanted to emphasize that he was talking about the plan, not Lupin.

Snape merely shrugged. "Then you haven't realized what you will be facing if you ever do destroy your lifelong enemy. The Death Eaters should be your primary concern in the moments immediately following Voldemort's destruction. They will be displeased, certainly, and many will feel they have the necessary qualities to lead the group themselves. In a way, our government has made that aspect of your challenge more difficult. By removing the most widely recognized, and broadly supported of the Death Eaters, Lucius Malfoy, they have given many others in the organization unrealistically high estimations of their own status. So rather than having to kill the leader and then his most obvious successor, you shall have to subjugate all of the self-styled 'leaders' in the Deatheater hierarchy."

"Subjugate?" Harry asked dismally. He admitted to himself that - especially after Malfoy had gone to jail - he had expected the Death Eaters to simply evaporate once their Lord was dead. The idea of an endless train of minor villains, all bent on revenge, plaguing him for the rest of his life, was sickening.

Calculating the effect of his words very precisely, Snape waited until Harry had thought about the after-Voldemort Death Eaters for a while. "You don't want to deal with them piecemeal, over a period of years, do you?" Harry looked up sharply, alarmed that Snape had followed his thoughts so closely. "No? That's wise. I will tell you what I know of the people who belong to that organization. I believe I understand much of what motivates them. You will have to decide for yourself, of course. But my opinions are based on years of close observation. The men and women who have joined the Death Eaters generally share several broadly related sets of beliefs. It is important to remember that, no matter how corrupted some of these people have become, no one joins a political movement motivated by pure evil, or by the desire to live in an evil world. If they choose to follow an evil leader, or to do evil things, it is - at least originally - due to an impulse toward improving their lives.

"Most Death Eaters feel that the quality of wizarding in the wizard world has declined. They blame many things for this: the introduction of mixed-blood people into wizard society, the toleration of squibs, a decline in the quality of education, and more. They have many ideas for how to solve the problems: prohibit wizards and witches from marrying - more specifically, from procreating with - non-magical people; kill squibs; raise the standards of what is expected at school, and more. They generally believe in the benefits of discipline and self-control, and see our current government as being lax and indulgent. Therefore, the Death Eater organization is very rigidly structured. One absolute leader at the top, whom everyone follows. Severe punishments for failure to complete a mission, or dereliction of duty. Also severe punishments for falling short in any one of many ways. In return for suffering all of this severity, the Death Eaters believe their enemies will be killed, their leader will one day control this country - and eventually the world - and their ideals of a perfect magical society will be realized. How does one destroy such an organization?"

"Kill the head, and the body will die," quoted Harry, rather proud of himself.

"If the Death Eaters were a snake, that strategy would work. But as I have already described, the organization is more like a Hydra. If you kill the head, there will be seven or eight individuals who believe themselves to be the next head. Each of those will have his own followers. You will have seven or eight separate, secret Deatheater groups, each of which will be intent on killing you, then continuing Voldemort's plan. Your greatest advantage right now is that all of those people are together in one organization. So what do you believe you should do?"

"Call them all together, and kill them all at once?" Harry said uncertainly.

"Your classmates employ an appropriate taunt for that plan. 'You and what army?' The Death Eaters are not a small organization. They are secret, and few of them gather at any one time, in consideration of security. But should you summon even the most significant participants to one place, you would have the makings of a major battle. I assure you that what I know of you tells me you could defeat Voldemort one-on-one. To face this horde, you would need an immense force of battle-ready wizards."

"Then it's impossible," Harry moaned. "I'll just kill Voldemort. For myself, for my parents' memory, for... for everybody, really. I'll kill him, and be done with it."

"Dumbledore would like that," Snape sneered. "His greatest enemy is killed, and then the young hero allows himself to be cut down before he can receive his proper accolades. Dumbledore is left to take the credit, and ascends to even greater heights of power."

"Why are we always talking about Dumbledore?" Harry demanded.

"Do you think you are the only wizard in the world who hates Cornelius Fudge?" Snape crooned. "Do you think you are the only magic-user in Britain who has observed that our current Ministry are blind, meddling fools? Dumbledore runs Hogwarts because he has always had an absolute genius for being in exactly the right place to ensure himself of protection as he builds his own strategies. He managed to control your life almost completely from the moment your parents died. He has forged powerful alliances with many different groups of people because he gave one of their kind a unique opportunity. Squibs, half-giants, werewolves, even those thought to be irredeemably corrupted, such as myself."

Harry was embarrassed, and very uncomfortable. To hear his strict, demanding teacher refer to himself as having been considered irredeemably corrupted felt as improper as if the man had removed his robes to display scars of battle on his arse. But there was something wrong with Snape's whole premise. "You're one of the ones who got a... a unique opportunity from Dumbledore. But you're talking about him like he was the enemy. How does that work?"

"You've seen how Dumbledore recruits. He draws you in with a little reward for every little bit of corruption to which you agree. Do you need to stay away from the horrible uncle? Then betray your friend and House-mate. I'm sure you can think of some other examples over the past five years, and if you can't, Mister Lupin and I will help jog your memory. The point is, that sometimes an attempt to corrupt in that way fails. And sometimes, such an attempt backfires. That is, essentially, what has happened in both our cases."

"But Dumbledore is just a school principal. How is he one of my three big worries?"

"Good question. We'll get to that. Your second 'big worry' is the currently sitting Minister of Magic and his hand-picked minions. What did you think of Dolores Umbridge?"

"She was..." Under the pretense of searching for a word, Harry searched his feelings for what he truly wanted to say about the intrusive teacher and administrator. She had been instructed by the Ministry to address certain problems - most of which had to do with people such as himself discovering uncomfortable truths about the world in which they lived. But the way she had carried out her assignment had been colored by her own sadistic glee at causing suffering to those whom she felt presented her with resistance. She had come not simply to correct a problem, but to crush certain troublemakers. She had decided who the problems were before she had ever arrived at Hogwarts, and had paid no attention to any evidence that those people may have had any good qualities, or that their stories may have held any element of truth. Ultimately, she hadn't cared about solving problems, but only about inflicting pain. Her joy was in the amount of punishment she could hand out, her satisfaction in the number of facts she could keep hidden. "She was evil," Harry decided.

"And what do you think of Percy Weasley?" Snape asked in exactly the same tone as he had asked about Umbridge.

"Huh?" Harry did not get the point of that transition at all. Dolores Umbridge was a destructive, hateful adult who had been given enough power to abuse. Percy was still practically a child, and he was... Percy.

"The question seems simple enough, Mister Potter," Snape said with more impatience. You have told me what you think of one person, now I'd like to know what you think of another. What do you think of Percy Weasley?"

"He's big-headed, self-important, and tends to puff himself up whenever he thinks people should take notice of him. He's young. He's harmless."

"And is a big-headed self-puffer not a danger to you? He supported Fudge's every move throughout the past year, including the Minister's invasion of Hogwarts. He even opposed his own father when Arthur objected to the Umbridge appointment."

"He's young. He thinks about his career. He was Head Boy, and he's never gotten over the attention he had then." Harry felt odd about defending Percy Weasley to anyone, even if it was in the face of Snape's accusatory grilling. Percy was an arse, so far has Harry could tell, but he wasn't evil.

"So the younger Death Eaters should be forgiven their support for Voldemort, on the basis that they are thinking about their careers. And they may have enjoyed serving as prefects, or some such?" Snape asked mildly.

Harry was getting angry, now. Maybe this whole discussion had been a test of how far he would go along with a premise before he declared it ridiculous. If so, he had probably already failed. Nonetheless, he was putting a stop to it right now. "Percy Weasley is pursuing a legitimate career in our rightful government. He's trying to make something of himself legally and in full public view. Why the bloody hell are you comparing him to a Death Eater?"

"Because it's the same damn thing!" Snape returned with equal heat, using the muggle-style profanity with such familiarity that Harry was taken completely by surprise. "If you can't see that, you are missing the biggest lesson of last school term. When Percy graduated from Hogwarts, The Ministry was the most obvious opportunity available. The boy was shown a clearly marked 'career path,' and he took it regardless of the qualities of the man he had to support in order to succeed. If Percy had been older - if Voldemort was on the rise when Head Boy Weasley graduated from school, young Weasley might just as easily have taken his propensity for following orders and his thirst for discipline and orderliness into the service of the Dark Lord, and become a Death Eater. That is how so many of your lifelong enemy's followers found themselves in his service. A great many of them are exactly like Percy - they love rules, they crave orderly behavior, they want to punish the mischievous and the silly as though those people were serious criminals. And the grim structure of Voldemort's army appeals to them for the very reason that the Ministry's more draconian measures appeal to Percy Weasley. Are the Death Eaters sadistic and murderous? Yes. How is that different from Fudge's closest associates? Umbridge? Sadistic. Fudge himself? He may use dementors instead of his own wand, but 'murderous' is not too strong a charge to level against the man.

"Take last term's events as an example. Fudge wanted to suppress a truth. His aim was not just to lie, but to silence anyone who disagreed with his lie. 'Rightful government?' Rubbish. He put every citizen of Britain in danger by his own actions and threatened everyone who challenged him. And when he was proven wrong, then what? He acted as though he had decided to make a huge concession, all on his own: 'Oh, sorry, I'll take my enforcer out of your school.' What were the consequences for Fudge? Nothing. What were the consequences of his little experiment in education for you? Permanent scars on your writing hand. Not to mention a lingering suspicion of you, personally, in a great many people's minds. Potter the insane. Potter the liar. Potter who hallucinates. Do you have any idea why the most powerful elected official in our nation would bother to establish such suspicion?" Harry's mouth was set in a firm line. He made no reply. "Because he is afraid of you!" Snape said, forcefully enough to make Harry stop walking and take a step back from the man. "He is afraid of what will happen when you succeed in eliminating the greatest single threat to our nation in the past several generations. Heroes are feted in many ways. Fudge fears that you may take his job. Or ask the crowd to put his head on a pike. I'm not sure which of those he fears more."

Harry did not start walking again. He stood on the path to Hogwarts, immovable, a look of grim determination on his face. "All right, let's get it out. Voldemort is last, so I guess you're saying Fudge has to go first. But before that... what? I'm supposed to get rid of Dumbledore?"

"You have it wrong, Potter, but only slightly," Snape said, once again looking more disappointed than angry. "If Fudge is discredited, Dumbledore stands ready to expand his power even further. The Headmaster may not even want an actual government post - that may prove too restrictive to him. But he is famous, and with the threat of Voldemort being generally recognized once again, the Dark Lord's most famous enemy will certainly be in the public mind once more. And he will be more than willing to take credit for any victory you may achieve. But what you must do is change the way you think about defeating your oldest enemy. You have always wanted to kill him. I understand that and applaud the sentiment. But once you accomplish that, you can't simply walk away. Killing him leaves you with even greater responsibility than you will have faced before. You must kill him. And, you must take over his organization, pull his followers close to you, make them bend to your will as effectively as he has done already. You must control them well enough that they do not become a rampant force of destruction, killing and burning all through the nation. And in order to maintain the kind of control you will need, and prevent your enemies from taking action against you while disguised as legitimate public servants, you will have to depose Fudge and take over the operation of the government. And as you do this, you will have to prevent Dumbledore from undermining your efforts, stealing the credit that belongs to you, or even battling you with force of magic. In order to accomplish this, Mister Potter, you must become king of the wizard world, at least throughout Britain."

Harry stood and looked back and forth between the two men. Severus wore an expression of almost frightening intensity. Remus looked thoroughly supportive of the ideas that had been expressed. It was surreal. Harry reminded himself that he was talking to one of his teachers and one of his father's best friends. He searched for a diplomatic way to express what he was thinking. There was none. "What about the Wizengamut?" he demanded. "What about the Order, or the Aurors, or... or anyone who thinks a violent takeover of everything is a bad idea? What about the rest of the world?" He waited for the men to admit he was right, and turn back toward the castle and forget about this whole evening's discussions.

He was disappointed.

"France, in particular, already hates Fudge," Snape said coolly. "They have already failed to support any of his cross-channel proposals and have actively opposed some of his all-European suggestions. Most of Europe feels the same way. America doesn't care. They never did feel that Voldemort presented them with much of a threat, but that's just the way Americans are. The aurors are already sick of much of Fudge's denials - especially his denial of Voldemort's return. For the most part, they will follow anyone who is in charge, anyway. A successful takeover would effectively co-op the aurors, making them the ally of whoever held power. Most of the Order of the Phoenix already supports you. Most of us are merely waiting for you to grow up enough to take your responsibilities seriously. And as for everyone else - who is going to oppose the man who commands the feared legions of the Death Eaters?"

"That seems pretty weak," Harry replied, feeling distinctly worried. "Even if all of that other stuff fell into place, what about the Wizengamut?"

"Dumbledore has put unappreciated leverage on too many of those worthies to be able to call on them at will as once he could. If the Wizengamut sees that it is you in control - and especially if you are seen to be opposed to Dumbledore, rather than his childish tool - they may well decline to interfere. But the key to all of this is you, Mister Potter. If you were merely a very powerful wizard, such a plan would be useless. But you have power that is pure, and extremely flexible, and possibly almost unlimited. The power I tested in the Malfoy Manor was greater than that I have ever seen in anyone, Dumbledore and Voldemort included. You will need to learn how to shape the magic that is at your disposal. We will have to find someplace to experiment with your abilities. But if you can use 'Repellimus' to turn a curse, and reduce a boggart to plasma while destroying the magic-proof wall behind it and drilling a tunnel into the rock beyond that, you should be able to force your power to perform to very exacting specifications. You, Mister Potter, may well be able to do anything you can imagine. We will have to work on your imagination. But the raw power is there. You could be our next king."

Harry thought silently for a long moment. "That would be an enormous responsibility."

"That, Mister Potter, is, I believe, the single most mature statement I have ever heard you utter," Snape said sincerely. "I believe we have spoken long enough about these matters tonight. Let us plan your visit to the Weasley household as we make our way back to the castle. I would not want anyone to worry about us and come out to search." Snape turned and began to walk toward Hogwarts without looking to see what his companions did. Remus and Harry walked together behind him, and discussed a visit to the Burrow.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"Happy Friday, Mother," Draco called, emphasizing the weekday sufficiently that his mother could not have missed it.

"Yes. Joyful." Narcissa's voice was so dull, her sarcasm was nearly lost, leaving only a dismal mournfulness completely at odds with the vivacious party hostess she had so recently been.

"I suppose we have not received any invitations for social engagement? Especially as regards this weekend?" If the young Malfoy noticed his mother's dismal weariness, he gave so sign.

"Draco..." Narcissa stopped herself before she flew into another fit of rage. The neighbors had barely met them, and already must have heard Narcissa shouting at her son on at least one occasion. Their first week in a small house with no domestic help had been difficult on both of them, and had strained their relationship more severely than Narcissa would have thought possible. She loved her son. She had always loved him, and had helped him as much as she could, and protected him whenever possible. She believed that he loved her, as well, despite his being his father's son in almost every respect. Even Draco's apparent disregard for his father following the arrest was a classic Lucius attitude. Narcissa had seen her husband shrug off the loss of comrades he had known and worked with for years. 'You got caught, or you got killed, so I'm done with you - no help for the captured, no funeral for the deceased,' was the formula, and Narcissa had wondered how anyone could stay loyal to the Deatheater corps when each of them knew that their supreme lord, as well as most of their fellows, would adopt that exact attitude toward any of them who were no longer useful. Narcissa realized that she was woolgathering even as her son stood impatiently waiting for some response. "I have sent discreet notes to several select people. We must proceed discreetly, especially if the contacts we do develop here on the Continent are to prove to be of the highest quality. It will take some time for our plight to be recognized, and even longer for the people we most want to be associated with to decide in our favor. Then there will have to be an appropriate occasion to spark a suitable celebration to which we might be invited. Not too intimate, but not anything quite so open and vulgar as a fund-raiser. We will recover our lives, Draco. But in the meantime, we will not be regularly partying with the French aristocracy."

"Well, we will recover our lives, as you say, and we cannot afford to be ill-prepared," Draco lectured in his haughtiest tone. "Since it is the end of the week - but not yet either of the days on which the working class takes their leisure, perhaps we can avail ourselves of the opportunity to investigate the fashions available in Paris. We are in the home of Haute Couture, and it would be a true shame to allow such resources to be wasted on the unappreciative while we are here."

"Draco... Son... Why do you think we are living here?" Narcissa asked patiently.

"To confound the Ministry," Draco answered huffily.

"No, Son. Why do you think we are living in a tiny house in a muggle neighborhood?"

"I didn't think we'd be able to replace the Manor, and we've hardly had time to look for alternatives," Draco sniffed.

Narcissa took a deep, calming breath. "We... have… no... alternatives. Where we are right now is finer than anything we could legitimately afford. And if it had not been for the generous help of a dear friend, and the understanding of this property's owner, we would not even have this."

"Who was it? Who helped us?"

Narcissa felt awful. Draco had finally expressed some interest in their situation, and the first piece of information he requested was supposed to be confidential. "I'm not at liberty to say."

Draco was clearly scandalized. "Good God, Mother, what have you done?"

"Don't you take that tone with me, young man! You have been pampered and provided for all your life. You have no idea what a real adult person has to do to be able to give you all that you have gotten used to receiving so effortlessly. Believe me, child, there was nothing improper about the way we obtained a place to live." She stopped herself, thinking once again of the neighbors. In Malfoy Manor, she had been such a quiet person. And there, the grounds were so large she could have shouted to the top of her lungs without disturbing anyone. Here, where the neighbors were much closer than 'shouting distance,' she had been raising her voice daily. Very quietly, but with obviously restrained anger, she grated, "I would appreciate an apology."

Draco had not yet gotten used to his new mother. She was similar in so many ways to the woman who had raised him; she wore the same dress size, brushed her hair the same way, had the same immunity from dental problems. But his mother had been smoothly gracious throughout his entire life, while this woman could be shrill as a fishwife. His mother had been able to floo the most wealthy and prestigious people in the world and be greeted personally, and graciously, by name. This woman sent 'discreet notes,' and waited for an 'appropriate occasion' to receive some kind of reply. His mother had always been able to -Do Something- when a crisis loomed. This woman had been thoroughly trampled by her husband's arrest, and seemed helpless to do anything but succumb to drunkenness in the evenings. It had been bad enough that his father was in jail. But having his mother replaced by this ineffectual whiner had made him feel truly abandoned. He looked at her angry face, saw her tense hands and stiff posture, and thought about the economic shock that must have occurred when the Malfoy millions had been snatched away along with his father. She controlled whatever money there was now. But for a woman who had been used to spending more on a party than this little house could possibly have cost to buy outright, he imagined that she was left with few options. If all of her money was needed for living expenses, investment opportunities would not be attractive, or even feasible, and entertainment expenses would be out of the question. Still, the woman would have to be convinced that clothing, at least, was a legitimate living expense, along with decent furnishings and decor. There wasn't much one could do with a little bungalow such as this one, but even if he were fated to remain embarrassed to invite anyone tasteful into his home, he should at least be able to feel decent about showing himself when going out. The first step toward this would have to be re-establishing civil contact. "I'm sorry, Mother. I meant no disrespect." The lines were delivered sincerely, his face free from sneering, his posture erect but humble. Perfect.

Narcissa studied the boy and saw all the well-rehearsed reactions falling into place with the ease of repeated practice. He knew what to do, what to say, and how to present it. It was totally insincere, of course, but at least it was informed with legitimate fear; fear of being left without spending money, fear of being left off the invitations when they finally began to arrive, fear of the public humiliation she could subject him to so easily. "Very well," she finally allowed. "You are young. I will have to keep that in mind. And you really do have no idea what it takes to support two people."

"No, I don't," Draco admitted in a brilliant simulation of humility. "So I will ask. Since we are in France, and so close to Paris, and since I have never seen the wizard community of this country except for the Xenophon course, could the two of us take a trip to the city? Could I have at least one new robe, or at least see the commercial district in which French wizards do their business?"

"No." Narcissa stood resolutely, staring her son down for a long while. "You do not understand, and I realize that it's not particularly fair to you to have to comprehend our situation so quickly, but we are balanced on a very thin edge indeed. No, you cannot have one new robe. For that matter, we cannot even go into the city. I know of nowhere to safely apparate, so for our first journey, we would have to hire transportation, and Draco - we cannot even afford to take a cab to Paris. That is the situation in which we find ourselves. Before your father's arrest, we would have purchased a fleet of vehicles and hired a team of drivers so that each of us would have had a car of our own, and our group would have had a proper escort. Now, we cannot afford to take public transportation from here to Paris. Can you understand that?"

"Yes, Mother," Draco replied stiffly. "May I at least go out and play?"

Narcissa directed a scathing look his way. "Give your mother some credit. I know that you are hardly likely to want to go out and play."

"Pardon me, Mother," Draco said with a contrite look, "but I had something particular in mind. Something that would take me off your hands for a few days, and would cost next to nothing. I would like to go cross-country."

Narcissa rolled her eyes. "You are not flying your broom where a hundred Continental muggles can see you," she scolded.

"No, Mother, I'll leave my broom at home. There's a machine that's very popular here. It's called a 'bicycle.' It has..."

"I know what a bicycle is. And I know what one costs," Narcissa interrupted impatiently.

"Not if I borrow one," Draco smiled.

"And who would lend you a bicycle?"

"The girl I met at the Xenophon practice last week. You remember, I told you all about her."

Narcissa remembered little about last Thursday, but she knew that she had taken a large dose of laudnam a short time before Draco had arrived home. Draco could have told her the world was ending, and she would most likely have decided the story was very nice, and then forgotten all about it. She certainly did not recall anything about her son meeting a girl at the field. At least he hadn't been tearing off every day since to visit her. And now, the girl was going to lend him a bicycle... for a cross country trip... that would take Draco 'a few days'... "Does this girl know anything about contraception?" Narcissa demanded.

"I doubt that it will come to that," Draco drawled. "She is more interested in the manly arts of competition. And in using her prowess at masculine pursuits to show off for the girls in the stands. She's a brilliant flyer, though, and was quite impressed with my techniques. She suggested the bicycle herself. I'm not even sure she's interested in coming along for the ride."

"And where will you sleep?"

"There is a network of places designed especially for young people who are taking just these sorts of trips. Not hotels, by any stretch of the imagination, but more like the oldest of what we would call 'Inns.' The sport is popular, so the places are usually crowded, and there are plenty of adults working as managers of the places to keep watch over the adolescents in the crowd. It's cheap - and it's safe. And just in case I run into trouble... I'll take my wand. I doubt any muggle knows how to deal with a Petrificus."

"And eat?"

"I'll pack my first day's lunch, then eat at the 'hostiles.' I think I'll try to follow the 'Tour de Force,' a popular muggle race course that runs all through the country."

"And this will cost?"

"It's really, really cheap, Mother. Twenty-five francs should do it - and leave me a franc or two for any emergency I encounter. If I may have twenty-five francs, I'll get healthy exercise, help cement my relationship with the only French witch I have yet met, and you won't have me underfoot until Monday afternoon. What do you say?"

Narcissa had volumes she wanted to say - but she knew that most of it would be useless, and ultimately ignored. "I'll get the money."

Draco took the opportunity to change into standard muggle clothing, and pack a compact sport bag with some clothing. He put together enough food for lunch, stuffed the package into his sport bag, and made a conspicuous presentation of putting his broom away. He kissed his mother, wished her a happy weekend, and left. About a block away from home, he checked his wallet. In addition to the money his mother had given him, he had about two hundred francs and nearly one hundred pounds in addition to the small bag that held several galleons and some sickles. It was over half his pocket money stash, which he kept easily accessible at all times. That stash was only a portion of his emergency money, which he kept well-hidden. It had been a challenge to get his emergency money moved into the new house without his mother noticing, but he had done it, and days like this were the perfect reason why it was important for a boy to have some unaccounted-for cash of his own. Draco had no intention of borrowing a bicycle. He did, however, know several places in Diagon Alley that would be perfectly happy to extend a Malfoy some credit. At some of them, he already had a tab, to which he could add new purchases freely, since, by happy accident, he had paid off his creditors a short time before Lucius was arrested. In wizard London, he could have some fun. The first step was to get to the Chunnel, and buy himself the quickest available transport through it. Once on British soil, he could simply stick out his wand hand, and summon the Knight Bus. This weekend was going to be brilliant.

--- --- ---

Harry wrote his first letter to Neville while having breakfast on Friday morning. So much had happened, and yet there was so little that he could say. He went into some detail about Professor Sprout's resignation. But even with the Professor's own disclaimer, explaining that her resignation was due to disagreements with Dumbledore, Harry felt certain that Neville would blame him for his favorite teacher's departure, anyway. He mentioned the attack that had been made on him by the four flyers, and the magical contamination in the soil afterward, and the efforts of the three adults to clean it all up. He wasn't sure himself if he was using the story to elicit sympathy, but the yarn was a good one, and made a generally sad letter a lot more fun. But the things he was burning to talk about couldn't be mentioned at all. The magic test, Remus' political lecture, Snape's plan of action... there was no way he could bring any of that up, especially in writing that could easily be intercepted. Besides, it wasn't Neville whose opinion he wanted. He wished he could speak to Ron face to face. After today, perhaps there would be a way to arrange that very thing. Remus had seemed to think it possible, so Harry finished his letter, ran to his room to send it on its way with Hedwig, and dashed out toward the greenhouses.

He had brought quill and parchment again, ready for more note taking on any new subject, but to his dismay, Professor Sprout began the day with a review of the previous day's instructions. Harry showed off the notes he had taken, but the Professor merely nodded brusquely and told him, "Those would be exemplary for a class, Mister Potter, but once I am gone, you are going to have to be able to work quickly and anticipate the needs of your vegetable charges. They - for the most part - cannot speak for themselves, so in matters of feeding and watering, especially, you must know what it is you need to do. Put away the notes, start here, where we began yesterday, and tell me the needs of each plant as we progress." Harry stood rooted to the spot, immobilized with fear. "You may begin," Professor Sprout prompted, and Harry started to describe the care of the first plant.

By the time they had worked their way through the first row, from the back of the greenhouse to the front, Professor Sprout looked grim. "You should be glad this job is not graded, Mister Potter," she said. "You would be the first Hogwarts student in quite some time to fail 'summer.' You have me here only until a week from Tuesday. I certainly hope you had no plans for the weekend."

Sheepishly, Harry admitted, "I was hoping I could go visit the Weasleys at their home."

"Go visit?" Professor Sprout was scandalized. "How long were you planning on being gone? When I spoke of plans, I meant flying your broomstick around the quiddich pitch, or having a quiet read in your room. Go visit? Did you think this job came with days off? Did you think you could put in five days a week, or less for a holiday? Haven't you paid attention to a single thing I've said since you've been here? This job is constant, unrelenting, non-stop. The only reason you have had your evenings free is that none of the plants are sick or damaged. If there were an invalid to care for... oh, you'd not be walking into Hogsmeade with Mister Lupin for your evening meals. You'd be begging the house elves to drag you a crust out here, where you would stay until your patient was fit to grow on its own! Go visit." She harumphed and strode back to the beginning of the first row. "We will start over. I will describe the correct way to care for each plant, and you will repeat those instructions to me. No, you can't look at your notes! I know you have it written down, but I want it in that head of yours. I'll tell you, you repeat it. And tonight, if you're smart, you'll read the notes you take today as well as the ones that you took yesterday - yes, the ones that I'm not letting you read right now. Ready? Good. The first plant..."

Harry spent all morning going over what he had learned yesterday. Lunch was short, a matter of sprinting up to the dining hall for a sandwich and juice, efficiently provided by the house elves. He walked back down to the greenhouses with a developing headache, which only got worse as the afternoon's lesson rolled on. He wrote until his hand was sore, then realized he had already forgotten the first example of the day. Professor Sprout dismissed him well after five o'clock, with the stern instruction that his Saturday work would begin promptly at seven the next morning.

Things only got worse as he reached the front door of the castle, only to have Hedwig meet him. Harry was happy to see the bird, and pleased that she had brought a reply to his letter to Neville. He was not happy at all with the contents of Neville's reply.

_Harry -_

_You Bastard. All the good people in the world ought to_

_simply give up and surrender right now. Voldemort in_

_full battle frenzy can't do the kind of damage you can do_

_just by hanging around._

This was not at all good. Especially after what happened to his parents, Neville Longbottom was particularly sensitive to anything having to do with dark magic. He always said 'You Know Who' when referring to the Death Eaters' leader. For Neville to have actually written out the name "Voldemort" told Harry more about how furious Neville must have been than the insult he had used the name for.

_I don't know how I will manage it, but I will be at that_

_school before Tuesday next. And when I am there, I_

_hope you give me a reason to take further offense._

_I'll blow your stinking head off, Potter._

_Neville_

Well. 'At least he wasn't wishy-washy, or ambiguous,' Harry thought. 'Good for ol' Neville to have finally learned to spit it out and say what he means. Too bad ol' Neville had to learn his lesson by threatening to blow off my head.'

--- --- ---

On the way to dinner, Harry found Remus waiting for him, leaning against a wall. The man grinned when he saw his pack's cub approaching. "What's wrong, Harry? You look miserable."

"Professor Sprout thinks I'm an idiot. After today, I'm not sure she's wrong. Neville thinks I'm a menace. He sent me a letter threatening to blow my head off. 'I hope you give me a reason,' he said."

"There you go," Remus said confidently. "As long as he still needs a reason, then he hasn't already made up his mind to kill you. I'd say you would be justified in maintaining a very optimistic attitude toward your next meeting. Oh... and speaking of next meetings, what have you thought of regarding your trip to the Burrow?"

"That it won't happen," Harry said with disgust. "Professor Sprout chewed me out for thinking I got days off, then told me to be in at seven tomorrow morning, and to expect the same for Sunday."

Remus shrugged. "Maybe we could drop by one evening."

"You don't know Mrs. Weasley," Harry said. "We won't be able to 'drop by' without having dinner, which is always a long, loud, big deal of a production at their house. And then I'd have to tell her all about my summer job, and what I was planning for next term... by the time I got to say anything to Ron, we'd already be late for returning. You can't 'drop by' the Burrow in the evening. And I'll be at work all day."

"All right," Remus replied, refusing to be discouraged. "If we can't bring you to your friend, we'll bring your friend to you. It's never a lot of fun hanging around with the old folks, and I know Ron can't apparate, yet, so why don't we ask Fred and George Weasley to bring Ron by the castle?"

"The twins?" Harry yelped with a stab of fear. If Neville showed up and Harry was fooling around with those jokers, he would be in a duel as soon as Neville saw who was visiting. Not that Neville had ever had any bad feeling for the twins in particular. It was just the circumstances: Professor Sprout resigning, Harry taking Neville's summer job... to be discovered in the company of the most famous practical jokers in recent history would be in poor taste, so far as Neville was concerned. Or maybe not. But Harry wasn't sure he was willing to risk it.

"Yes, the twins," Remus insisted. "It's their school too. And Ron's their brother - why shouldn't they be allowed to pay a visit... especially when they'll be chaperoned by none other than me. I believe I am competent to maintain order even when faced with a major challenge such as the Weasley twins. And the best part is, Professor Snape and I... which means, perforce, you too... are off on another Malfoy hunt tonight. I thought we might visit the quaint neighborhood of Diagon Alley. It being Friday night, with school out for summer, the Wizard Wheezes shop should be open late, and you will have a chance to put your request to the brothers Weasley in person. And since Draco Malfoy is such an avid quiddich player, we should spend some time staking out Quality Quiddich Supplies, don't you think?"

Harry could find nothing at all wrong with the plan, so after a quick dinner, Remus and Harry descended into the dungeons to collect Snape, and begin their Diagon Alley adventure.

--- --- ---

The floo at the Thrashers' home flared blue, and the bruised face of Gregory Goyle looked around the living room from the hearth. No one was there, so he called, softly at first, then more insistently as he received no response. "Chaz... Chaz, man, be home, will you. Chaz! Anybody. Mrs. Thrasher? Are you in? Mister Thrasher...? CHAZ!"

Chaz Thrasher wandered lazily into his living room, scratching his belly beneath a white t-shirt and holding a bottle of stout in his free hand. "Bloody Hell, Gregory," he yawned. "If my old Da was home, he'd of pitched a brick at ye' for yowlin' like 'at. What's going... Whoa! Look at your face! Who did you in, mate?" Seeing Gregory's swollen cheek had awakened the young Thrasher a bit. He even put his bottle down to get close to the floo to check Goyle's face more closely. "That's no little shiner, man, that's like... somebody tried to break your cheekbone." He laughed at the image of someone actually trying to score a broken cheek in a fistfight. The more likely outcome would be broken fingers, unless the attacker had used a weapon, or if he was really into the martial arts. "Come on, spit it out - who tagged you?"

"Shut up, mouth," Goyle snarled. "I'm trying to tell you - it's why I called. You might want to do some traveling for the rest of the summer, cause he knows where you live too, you git!"

Chaz was worried, now. He usually kept a mental checklist of people he had done something evil to, but it was showing all blanks now - except for his brother, who still had not called in the favor he had done by apparating Chaz and the boys to Hogwarts... and the little bastard that had burned up his broom. Chaz wondered if that might be the culprit. He didn't think so, though. The miniscule git had thrown around a lot of magic, but he was 'way too small to fight Goyle and leave a mark. So had Boz taken exception to something Greg had done? The only way to determine that was to ask. "Huh?"

Gregory was nearly purple with enraged frustration. "The fist that nearly knocked my cheekbone down my throat belonged to Professor Snape!"

As Greg watched impatiently, Chaz tried to process what he had been told. Professor Snape. Potions teacher. Head of House. Enthusiastic rooter for the Slytherin quiddich team. Harasser of Gryffindors. Supposedly part of Voldemort's closest brain trust. "Nah!" he said with finality.

"Yah!" Gregory mocked back at him. "And he's on the warpath. Said we blew a half-dozen basic rules for pulling a raid. Said that the school robes were particularly stupid. Said we should have had masks at least, if not full disguises - and that we should have stolen the brooms. Said that we owed our continued freedom to the simple fact that all four brooms burnt to ash and blew away. Nothing to trace. And anyone with half a brain would have thought that our faces were our disguises - polyjuice, or rubber masks or something - so that we four innocents would get in trouble and the real culprits would go free. Also, while he was beating me up, he very calmly described how many mistakes we made in our attacks. How many stupid spells we cast. How many opportunities we wasted for using our brooms more aggressively. Worst of all, he said that my potential future with... you know... the big guy..." Greg glanced around Thrasher's living room again, looking for anyone who might have been listening. "He said my future there is in grave jeopardy. I mean, anyone else says 'grave jeopardy,' and I figure they're a clueless ponce trying to talk pretty. But Snape... when Snape says 'grave jeopardy,' it's like... like he's used to saying things like that. And meaning them, as well. Anyway, I know he's twigged to who all of you guys are, because he never once asked me anything about you. It was like... 'OK, Greg, here's yours,' and not word one about 'Who was that with you.' Nothing. He knows, mate. And he's severely displeased."

Chaz picked up his bottle very slowly and drained it in one long, methodical chug. He tossed the bottle back over his shoulder and shook his head miserably. "I got nowhere to go, man. I've no money, anyway, so the best I could do if I did run would be to sleep on the beach or something. My old Da is waiting for an excuse to boot me out of the house the way he did Boz before me. He's been particularly unforgiving about some altercations I was involved in first day back from school. So if I spend some days away from home, I might as well not bother to return. I'm totally screwed over. Only thing to do is stay drunk enough it won't hurt so bad."

"Too late, Mister Thrasher," a silken voice purred from the shadows. Chaz spun completely around but failed to find the source of the interruption. "Here," the arrogant drawl sounded from just behind Thrasher's left ear. He turned, raising his hands into a defensive position, and his own discarded stout bottle shattered across his face. "Get off the floo, Mister Goyle." The command was quiet, but backed with steel. Gregory's face had disappeared from the hearth by the time the word 'off' had been uttered. Something slammed into Thrasher's solar plexus, and he fought for breath even as he gave up the attempt to remain standing. "Now, Chaz," Snape lectured in his most condescending classroom manner. "When you outweigh your opponent by half, and you are on a broom, with the advantage in both height and momentum, how should you apply your good fortune to give your victim the beating of his life? Let us examine this. You, for example, are on the ground, unable to breathe. I have the advantage of height. Let me illustrate how this might be employed." Several dull thuds sounded throughout the living room before Chaz lost consciousness. "Oh, no, you don't," Snape murmured gently, as he drew his wand and revived the boy. "Ah, there you are," he said, staring directly into Thrasher's just-reopened eyes. "There is so much more to tell you." For Snape, the scream of terror that echoed through the house was almost worth the trouble of having had to go there to hear it.

--- --- ---

Remus and Harry walked along Diagon Alley in the early-evening cool, lights in almost every shop twinkling invitingly as crowds strolled casually, window shopping or simply enjoying each other's company. Snape had apparated away separately again, and Harry was wondering if that wasn't going to prove to be a problem. "Isn't Snape supposed to be my guard?" Harry asked Remus. "And you're the backup, right?"

Remus laughed. He took a deep breath, enjoying the aromas of restaurants and treat shops all along the Alley, as he listened to the generally happy sounds of the crowd that was out tonight. He looked at Harry with pride. The boy was growing well. James would have been proud. But he did have a flair for the melodramatic. "Guardian, perhaps, but you're not in prison. No one has been set to 'stand guard' over you, Harry. Dumbledore called Snape your 'lifeguard,' and referred to him being your primary guardian during the summer months. But I am more your guardian than he could ever be. You are my best friend's son, and..." Remus glanced around quickly, and immediately determined that no one was paying them any particular attention. "How much do you know about wolves, Harry?"

The boy was taken aback by the question. He was embarrassed to discuss wolves, or lycanthopy, in front of Remus. It seemed impolite... almost indecent. "Uhhh... not much," he admitted.

"Then I'll explain some of how this works sometime. What I can tell you is that - since you were James' son, you are my blood relative, more strongly linked to me than most human siblings. I am your guardian, no matter what the law, or the Headmaster, or human traditions say about it. Sirius was your godfather. But more importantly, since he was a dog in his animagus form, he may have had some of the blood-deep feeling for that responsibility that I feel myself, even though I was never given a formal, human title to link myself to you. You are my pack, Harry. And even if Severus hates the... form I assume... he realizes that much at least, I believe. He knows there is no more dedicated person in the world when it comes to your safety than am I."

"That's great, Remus," Harry said with his eyes shining. "Thanks." But even as he spoke, he wondered: would a man so dedicated to his safety want him to fight Voldemort, Fudge, and Dumbledore... in a row? Was he really that confident that Harry would prevail, or did he have an ulterior motive? Harry had to have someone to talk to! And Ron - strategic, chess-playing Ron - would be the perfect sounding board. "Hey, Remus... there it is! I never believed those two jokers would actually be able to get something so serious as their own business off the ground. But they proved me wrong. Good for them!" The building was modest, but the sign: 'Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' was anything but. Large, gaudy, and very slightly animated. The zoning laws covering Diagon Alley prohibited the sign the twins had wanted to install, and Harry had to admit that was, overall, a good thing. Any sign that literally reached out and grabbed customers was too pushy even for a shop specializing in practical jokes. And the proposed modification that would have spat sticky goo at anyone who failed to patronize the place seemed wrong even to Harry.

The shop was lit up brightly and filled with shoppers. Remus and Harry squeezed in, grateful that some room had been made by a couple coming out, carrying a bag filled with something that squirmed disturbingly.

"Hey, Harry," one of the twins called from behind the counter. "I have to talk with you. I'll be just a minute."

But one minute turned to several, and then a few more, and when Harry heard his name called again, it was only to apologize for being held up for 'just a little while longer.' It was fun browsing through the shelves, and reading the frankly hilarious descriptions of what each joke item was designed to do - in that respect, Fred and George had done well for themselves. But it would have been a lot more fun if the store weren't so crowded, and if he could have had either one of the owners' attention for a little while.

"Harry," Remus interrupted as he was reading the instructions for Instant Rainbow Beard Spray. "Will you be all right if I go across the street for a moment? I have never been much of a dresser, and most of my clothes... well..." he trailed off modestly. Actually, Harry thought that Remus had looked better in his scruffy muggle-style clothes than in anything else he had ever worn. But the robes he had on now were a perfect example of his usual attire: threadbare, out of style and certainly not tailored to his form.

"Right," Harry said with a smile. "Go ahead. Fred and George are here - and what could happen in a crowd this size?"

At that, Remus looked as though he was going to forget the whole thing and simply stay by Harry's side all night, but the boy insisted, "I've been looking out for myself for a while, now, you know. I do have some skills, right?"

Remus smiled and nodded. "You certainly do." And he was off, promising to be back quickly.

Fred was at Harry's elbow in less than a second after Remus cleared the doorway. "I thought he'd never leave," Fred said easily, guiding Harry by the simple expedient of pushing him through the crowd. "Come into my office." The two of them pushed their way behind the counter and into a small room filled with a desk, filing cabinets and sheaves of parchment.

"Whoa, you're serious businessmen," Harry teased, but Fred was taking no offense at the observation.

"That is absolutely correct. Serious as in all permits secured, serious as in all taxes paid, serious as in - this is the important one - profit-making. This is not just a job for me..."

"...And me," George chimed in suddenly, closing the door behind him.

"It's an investment, a career, and our fortune in years to come," Fred finished with a flourish, proudly indicating all of the surrounding accouterments of a business career, from business calendars to ledgers to schedules for purchases of materials and delivery of finished goods.

"Brilliant," Harry beamed. "But... who's minding the store?"

"Charlotte."

"Part-time help."

"But good with customers."

"Think of it - we have an employee, now."

"Who actually works hard, and hasn't stolen the till - yet."

"We weren't doing much actual selling tonight, anyway."

"Most people were just shopping."

"Or looking to shoplift."

"But we have spells against that."

"Not to mention Charlotte."

"Who might whip out her wand and curse a shoplifter..."

"Or use one of our own products..."

"She's a brilliant prankster, herself..."

"And give some slimy thief a full-body hotfoot..."

"Or even worse!"

Harry marvelled once again at how listening to the twins was like hearing a strange kind of stereo. They had different-sounding voices; Harry thought it was easier to tell them apart by sound than by sight. But the way their statements intertwined to make an almost musical composition out of their speech - especially when they were excited - made it hard to separate the two distinctive voices from the whole of the fabric the two of them wove.

"Heard you were working at Hogwarts," Fred said thoughtfully.

"Heard you had Snape watching over you," George chimed in.

"So how did you dump him?"

"And what's Remus doing following you around?"

Harry held up his hands to ask for a respite from questions during which he could actually respond. "He's not dumped. He just went to do something. We're supposed to meet up again on the Alley. Remus is my..." Harry blushed bright red. "My bodyguard this summer." As expected, both twins laughed hard at this news. "It's not as stupid as it sounds. I got attacked by four guys on brooms. Snape and Remus came to chase them away, but... ummm..." Harry was tongue-tied with embarrassment once again. "I guess I scared them off myself."

Fred was looking pretty skeptical about that. "Scared off four guys? What did you do?"

"That's what I have to talk to Ron about," Harry blurted, and realized that he had just guaranteed that he would have to tell the entire story to these two - especially if he wanted their help in getting Ron out to Hogwarts. Conscious of the limited time they might have before Remus returned - or before Snape showed up - Harry filled the twins in quickly. He told them about his nonsense-word spells, his empty-hand magic shield, the wild magic that had spilled out from the fight, and the incendio that had caught four brooms on fire and completely destroyed them. Without going into detail, he told them about taking a magic-power test, and how he had blown a hole in the wall, and into the rock behind it. He didn't want to go into all the political ramifications, so he only said that Snape and Remus had suggested that - instead of merely killing Voldemort - that Harry should kill the Dark Lord AND take over his entire organization. "I've got to talk to Ron about this. I need a friend to share it with. And since I can't get away from Hogwarts - I have to work every day, including weekends - I hoped I could get you guys to apparate Ron out to the school some evening to meet me. I'd really appreciate it."

Fred and George were looking very intently at Harry. Neither one said anything for a long moment, then George put his hand on Harry's forearm and spoke very seriously, for a change. "Harry, listen to me. We don't have much time, I know, so just listen. Ron is the very last person in the world you want to talk about this with." George saw Harry's eyes go wide, and he shook his head, gripping Harry's arm more firmly. "I'm absolutely serious. First: there's a little bit of Percy in Ron. He'd be insulted to hear it, but... think about it. Who thought the worst of you during the whole 'Goblet of Fire' fiasco? That's Ron in a nutshell. Easygoing bloke most times, but he has a stick up his arse when it comes down to anything important. Who thought you were going to raise Voldemort's ghost when you started speaking Parseltongue in your second year? Speaking with snakes is a useful skill, Harry. I never had anything but respect for it. But Ron? If you tell him you're planning to take over the Death Eaters, he will not see the public-service aspects of your ambition. Like as not, he'll want to fight you, thinking you've become evil."

"Have you become evil, Harry?" Fred asked, completely deadpan.

There was a moment of silence, then all three young men broke up into helpless laughter.

"And second?" Harry wondered.

"Second?"

"You said, 'First:' then made a point about Ron. So: Second?"

"Right. Second... why haven't you written my sister a letter, you cad?"

"Right. She checks the post every day, and intercepts every owl that comes near our house."

"All she wants is a letter from you."

"And a visit, if you could manage."

"And some kind of token of your esteem."

"A present, you know, something nice..."

"Something pretty..."

"Something romantic."

Harry's jaw had dropped near to his chest at this exchange. "What, Ginny?"

"What's the matter?" Fred taunted. "Don't you like..."

"What is it with people asking me that?" Harry drowned out the ending of the increasingly familiar inquiry.

"Maybe 'people' are noticing things that 'you' aren't."

"And she's not a bad kid... for a sister."

"Look, Harry, there's a deal to be made here, and for once in our mercenary careers, it won't involve the exchange of funds."

"You do not - repeat - do not need to involve Ronald in this escapade of yours."

"But us... that is two different stories."

"We can help you."

"In ways you probably haven't bothered imagining, yet."

"Sounds like you could find a use for the New Improved Extensible Ear."

"Sounds like you could use a place to practice some of your heavier-than-usual-duty magic."

"A lot of what we make is practically military-grade anyway."

"From smoke bombs to full-body hotfeetses."

"And our warehouse contains our lab."

"Which has to be particularly explosion-proof."

"And even the warehouse part has to be able to withstand the accidental ignition of some of our more boisterous products."

"Broach the subject to your adult pals as though it were all your idea. You can show off your developing leadership skills by talking us into helping you."

"So let's get you back out into the crowd before either of them gets back."

"Besides, we have a store to mind."

Harry went back to browsing the shelves as Fred and George attached themselves to undecided customers who both soon had a bagful of Wheezes, and smiles on their faces. Within minutes, Remus returned, and was in the store not a moment too soon, for as the werewolf was showing Harry what he had purchased, Snape stalked into the shop, disdain for the entire field of practical joking etched into his features.

Harry beckoned both men close to him. "While I was shopping here, I had an idea. Fred and George are very resourceful individuals. And they happen to have a heavily-armored warehouse..."

With exaggerated casualness, Draco Malfoy strolled past the window of the Weasleys' shop. He nodded to himself in satisfaction. He had been correct. The man who had just left the haberdashery had been looney, loopy Lupin, Gryffindor werewolf and disgraced ex-teacher. He felt a little disgusted to see the man in conference with Potter. But when he recognized the third participant in the conversation, he was so shocked, he stopped and stared through the glass, unmindful of appearing to be an immature, practical-joke obsessed child. Snape was talking with the two of them, and not sneering nor scolding, but apparently... could it be? ... agreeing with them both! Draco had spent the entire evening on the Alley without finding any friends. He had spotted the werewolf, who was easy enough to avoid, and had followed him across the street to make sure of who it was, only to find him with Potter. Two pukes and no friends - a miserable showing for a Friday night. But to see his own Head of House, his own Professor Snape, talking with the pukes as though they were planning something together... it made no sense. It was more upsetting than if he had gone through the entire evening without seeing anyone he recognized. He would have liked to spend a few moments with Snape, but now... Draco backed slowly away from the window, then turned and lost himself in the crowd.

--- --- ---

Harry's next day started out as brutally difficult as his last one. Review of the previous day's instructions were interspersed with flashbacks to Thursday's lessons. Professor Sprout kept at it with grim determination, but Harry could tell she was not very optimistic about the future health of the Hogwarts plant collection. Since some of the specimens were rare, and many were quite expensive, lack of confidence in the summer caretaker was a practical concern as well as a compassionate one. Harry didn't want to fail any more than Professor Sprout wanted to see her living specimens killed by neglect, so he tried as hard as he could to cram as much information into his head as possible. And, he wrote everything down. If nothing else, this exercise was making him an exponentially better note taker. His parchments were starting to look as orderly as Hermione's notes. But the quick, sure knowledge he would need could not be forced into his head in less than two weeks, and he was ready to admit defeat in the face of overwhelming difficulty. He would offer to switch with Neville, go back to the Dursleys'... anything he was asked to do, so long as he didn't have to destroy the entire Hogwarts' Herbology Department.

By lunchtime, Professor Sprout had little else she wanted to say to Harry beyond, "Go. Eat. Take a full hour, please. I need the time."

Harry heard the greenhouse door open, and looked around, expecting to see Remus coming to meet him for the midday meal. Instead, the door slammed quickly enough to prevent the escape of a creeping creeping charlie behind the tense, glowering form of Neville Longbottom.

"Potter." The semi-civil greeting was not merely forced, but sounded as though it had been dragged from Neville's mouth with tongs. Harry had no idea what to say. He stood there, hurt and embarrassed, wondering if there was anything that might show Neville that they could still be friends. As he remained quiet and motionless, it was Professor Sprout who broke the silence.

"Neville. I hardly think that is a proper salutation for this summer's guardian of the green."

Neville's eyes flashed. "Guardian of the green? He's a menace. He's been here a week, and already he's had fights on the grounds, magically contaminated our soil, and driven you to resign!"

Professor Sprout's next question was very quiet, but backed with undeniable intensity. "What did you say?" At the sound of it, Neville looked at her in shock.

"I said he's a menace."

"After that," the professor clarified, and calmly waited for Neville's answer.

Neville's face showed undaunted determination. "I said that with all the things he's done, all the trouble he's caused, and everything he doesn't know, that he drove you to resign. You're leaving Hogwarts a week after next Tuesday. And I, for one, am bitterly disappointed about it. You're the best teacher I have ever had. And if I excel in one subject - and I know I do - then it is because you were able to teach me that subject so well that I was able to excel."

"I see I have taught you less well in the subject of human affairs, however," Professor Sprout observed wryly. "Mister Longbottom, I expected some such drivel from Mister Potter, simply because I do not believe he knows me as well as you do. And, I expected him to feel guilty because his employment coincided with my decision to resign this teaching post. However, I did not expect you to believe for one moment that any student - no matter how abyssimally poor - could 'drive' me to quit. A poor performance may have 'driven' me to try harder. I believe that has been true many times through the years in which I taught. A careless or destructive child may have 'driven' me to find a punishment that was appropriate to the offense. I believe I have had some success in making some children reassess their own behavior, and its effect upon others - whether those others were plants or people. I believe that being 'driven' in those ways is a factor in my success as an instructor. But no one under my instruction or in my employ has ever 'driven' me to quit a job. Why did you presume that Mister Potter had done so?"

"He started work, and the very next day you quit. It was hard to think anything else," Neville said, much more defensively than he had been a moment ago.

"I see," Professor Sprout sniffed. Simultaneity. Otherwise known as Co-Incidence. Purely specious reasoning on your part, Mister Longbottom. I expect better of you. I would hope the improvement begins immediately."

With real confusion in his eyes, Neville asked, "Why did you quit, Professor?"

"A rather personal question," Professor Sprout cautioned, then immediately relented. "But if anyone deserves an explanation, that person would be you, Neville. Particularly in these rather exceptional circumstances. Mister Potter, you were going to lunch? Neville, please come into my office."

Both boys' 'Yes, M'am' sounded nearly in unison. As they passed each other, Harry got a quizzical look from Neville, which was a far cry from the fury with which he had entered the greenhouse. Professor Sprout's face remained absolutely neutral. Harry left for lunch, and met Remus about halfway back to the castle.

"How is Neville?" Remus asked gently.

"I don't really know," Harry said. "I thought he was really angry, but..." Harry shrugged, looking very uncomfortable. "Professor Sprout is talking with him."

"Good," Remus replied heartily. "Listen, Harry... the idea you had... you remember, last night. I think it will work out fine - if we can get started very soon. Do you feel up to... trying something out tonight?"

Harry groaned and put his hands over his face. His 'idea' - actually the Weasley twins' suggestion that he could use their warehouse to practice combat magic - would involve a lot of effort, and quite a bit of time. And tonight, he had a lot of studying to do if he were to avoid appearing to be an idiot in the greenhouses tomorrow. How he could possibly make peace with Neville, study his work notes and learn magical warfare all in the same day was a mystery to him.

"I have a lot to do," Harry offered weakly, but Remus wasn't taking any of that.

"You certainly do," the werewolf agreed heartily. "And if you accomplish it all, you might well become the most important figure in all of British wizard history. Nothing to sneeze at, there, but quite a lot to learn, and practice, and prepare for. So: tonight?" His bantering tone would have suggested mere friendly teasing to an observer, but Harry felt the seriousness of it deep in his belly.

"Yeah. Tonight," he agreed with a sigh.

About halfway through a sumptuous meal worthy of a full hour's lunchtime, Harry felt a shock of nervous tension run through him as he looked up to see Neville Longbottom standing at the dining hall door. Harry could feel his body reacting more quickly than his mind, making preparations to argue, to fight, or even to run away. Remus recognized the signs immediately. "Relax, Harry. Nobody's going to eat you," Remus said, trying to break the escalation of reactions that was pushing Harry closer to readiness for combat.

"I'm not sure about that," Harry replied with as much calm as he could force into his voice.

But when Neville approached the table and sat carefully on Remus' side, opposite Harry, he no longer looked furious, but rather, curious. He sat in silence for a moment, studying the boy opposite him. "My teacher recommended that I apologize to you, Harry," he finally said, looking across the table through narrowed eyes. "And I suppose I will, if I can get some things straight."

Harry noticed several things all at once. First, Neville had called him by his first name again, which was a tremendous relief. But as soon as he had done so, Harry could see that Remus looked worried. And Harry could not ignore the feeling, something like panic, that began swelling in his own chest. Harry wanted to end his fight with Neville, but he suddenly realized that he would rather Dumbledore not see that happen. And from the look of him, Remus didn't want Dumbledore to see - or hear - any reconciliation, either. Neville still sounded testy, and looked to be on edge. Perfect. That was as much as Harry was willing to allow the Headmaster to observe. Quickly, he interrupted what Neville was about to say. "How did you travel to Hogwarts, Neville?" He asked, deliberately keeping a nervous, uncertain quaver in his voice.

"Knight Bus," Neville shrugged. "Uncomfortable, but... what else was I going to do?" He began to speak again, trying to get back to his original topic, but Harry interrupted once more.

"Can we talk outside? I think we... uh... need to see the grounds. Oh, and Remus has to keep an eye on me. But outside, he can let us have a bit of distance, so there's some privacy. Right?"

The man nodded, and Neville stood, looking Harry over as though checking him for traps. The three Gryffindors walked to the front entrance, and the boys went a bit beyond before Neville stopped and faced Harry squarely. "We're outside, then, right? Is this outside enough for you?"

"Uhhh... let's walk," Harry suggested, ushering Neville toward the lawn, and in the direction of the Hogsmeade path beyond.

Fortunately, Neville seemed content to stroll, and their path was taking them directly to the boundaries of Hogwarts property. Neville checked Harry over suspiciously as they progressed, but he couldn't find anything specifically objectionable. "First thing," he said brusquely. "How did you get this Herbology job for the summer?"

"Fair question," Harry allowed. "I'll tell you for certain that I didn't ask for it. I went to Dumbledore and asked if I could stay and study over the summer. Just my regular subjects, that's all I was interested in. But really, I wasn't interested in studying - I just wanted to stay here. I didn't care if I had nothing to do, if I had homework for the entire term break, or if they'd simply locked me in the dungeon. I even suggested that last one, and not as a joke, either. I was desperate." With a surge of hope, Harry saw that Neville was following his story. He was listening, and apparently interested. "My muggle relatives are rather horrible. I can take being confined to a cupboard - I lived under the stairs until I first came to Hogwarts. I can take being locked in a room - my uncle put bars on a window and deadbolts on a door to lock me in one summer. But I wanted to be able to come back to class once, out of six years, when I was not three-quarters covered in bruises. My aunt is my blood relative. She only tells me how horrible I am, how magic is wrong, wizards are evil, I'm a freak... all of that. My uncle shows me how he feels with his fists. And he encourages his son to do the same. It's illegal for me to defend myself with magic, and they're all a lot bigger than me, so... I wanted to have one summer when I wasn't being beaten from the time I arrived home until the time I left on the Hogwarts Express, that's all."

Neville nodded slowly. He'd gotten the gist of Harry's history over the past five years, so having it all laid out so clearly wasn't nearly as much of a surprise as it might have been. "So... you asked for asylum. But how did you get the job?"

"I... Here," Harry said, stepping off of the school grounds onto the Hogsmeade path.

"I thought you wanted to see the grounds," Neville challenged suspiciously.

"I wanted some privacy," Harry replied with heat. "The Headmaster's been listening in on everyone."

Neville hesitantly stepped onto the path, then kept strolling along casually, looking over his shoulder to confirm that Remus was following in the distance. "Professor Sprout said something..." he mused.

"She said as little as possible," Harry interrupted urgently. "Snape's office is a lot more secure than the greenhouses, and Snape won't even talk about anything important in the dungeons, anymore." Harry could see Neville's skepticism, and knew he would have to convince Longbottom of his own sincerity, or suffer for it later. "Dumbledore has been... I'll tell you how I got assigned to your job and let you decide." Neville seemed satisfied with that suggestion, so Harry went on. "I went to Dumbledore. I told him I was desperate to stay away from my aunt and uncle. He told me there was no provision for allowing a student to remain at school over the summer. He said I would be in Filch's way, and that I'd even be in danger if I got caught in the castle when Filch was adjusting the moving staircases. So I got angry. I threatened to get a summer job in Diagon Alley."

"Where's the threat?" Neville said sarcastically. "Lots of kids get summer jobs."

"Lots of kids don't have complex blood magic protections against Deatheater attacks," Harry snapped back. "Apparently, if I'm not close enough to my aunt when I'm away from school, I'm vulnerable to being found and killed. And if I am close enough to my aunt, blood magic keeps locator spells from working on me, and gives me some kind of shield." Harry saw Neville's look of disbelief and hurried to explain. "I know - it sounds stupid. But that's what I've been told by every staff member at Hogwarts who would talk to me about it for the past five years. McGonagall believes it, and so does Hagrid, and Remus said that it would make sense... and it's the only decent reason I can think of for having to stay with the Dursleys for most of my life. Anyway, I got pissed off, and threatened to get a summer job. That's when Dumbledore told me that if I tried to stay away from the Dursleys, he would put an escort of dementors on me to force me to go home and stay there."

"Dementors?" Neville protested. "Dumbledore hates them as much as you do. Why would he say that? And why would you believe it?"

"Because Dumbledore believes the prophesy we found in the Ministry of Magic last term. He says I'm his weapon against Voldemort, and that he doesn't relinquish his weapons. Oh, by the way: The prophesy is ambiguous. I might not be the right one. So, if I fight Voldemort and get killed, then the prophesy means that you get to kill the Dark Lord. So don't think Dumbledore's not watching you as closely as he's watching me."

"All right," Neville said with a bit more uncertainty than he had displayed moments previously. "So you can't stay at the school, and you can't have a summer job. So why are you at the school with a summer job?"

"Because I was angry, and Dumbledore was worried that once I got home, the dementors would leave and I would run away. So he told me he was going to give me a babysitter. And that my babysitter would be Snape."

"Ouch," Neville said with genuine sympathy.

"So if Snape was going to have to watch me, I would have to be where he could do the job without inconvenience. Or..." Harry blushed as he thought of Snape's reaction to this particular summer assignment. "... At least, with as little inconvenience as possible. Dumbledore said I couldn't stay here if I didn't work, and the only job was the one you were supposed to have. So he gave me your job."

Neville thought about this for a while, then said, "So... you got my job because you threatened to run away." He was clearly displeased.

"Neville, for God's sake... I don't know what Professor Sprout told you, but I hope she gave you some clue so you don't think I'm jerking you around. I got your job because Dumbledore is acting crazy. Even Snape acts like he's afraid of him. When Dumbledore told me I would be taking your job, he was sadistic about it, like punishing both of us was fun for him. He was talking like it served us both right to get screwed over - you for being arrogant, thinking you had the job; and me for thinking I could demand sanctuary here. Something else... I don't think he wants us to be friends." Neville's snort of derision worried Harry. This was the crux of the discussion. Whether or not he could come to some understanding with Longbottom depended on this more than on any other point. "I think it has to do with the prophesy. If I don't kill Voldemort, you do. I mean... I took Trelawney's class... I don't think much of prophesies in general, whether they're from tea leaves or bloody celestial phenomena. But it's Dumbledore we're talking about, and he believes in this one, and so he thinks one of us is going to get rid of his enemy for him. I have the most obvious mark, right on my face, so he thinks I'm the best choice to use first. But I could fail, in which case, he'd still believe the prophesy - he'd just think he chose the wrong weapon. So he'll send you in against Voldemort, and he doesn't want you distracted by wondering what happened to me. So he doesn't want us friendly with one another."

Harry wondered whether he had made any sense at all. Despite Snape's prediction that he would 'lead people' some day, Harry knew perfectly well that he wasn't good at explaining what he meant when a situation was complicated. And Neville's face had gone disturbingly blank. "Harry," Longbottom said distantly, his eyes focused far away. "If Professor Sprout had not spoken with me... and been bloody cryptic and difficult to understand... I think I would have..." He didn't speak for a long while. The two boys walked along the Hogsmeade path in silence, Harry practically holding his breath. Neville suddenly stopped walking, glanced all around them, and then looked Harry straight in the eye. "Professor Sprout agrees with you. She tried to warn me, but she couldn't say anything right out. Now, I think I understand. We're going to have to keep fighting, so that anyone can see we're on the outs with each other. But we are also going to have to devise a way to get me into those greenhouses - and get you out of them - so that we don't lose our entire collection of plants."

Harry's grin was infectious. Neville found himself smiling as well. "First off, none of that being cheerful bollocks. We're pissed at each other, right?" Harry nodded and assumed a snarling game face more vicious than the one he wore for quiddich matches. "Uh... don't overdo it, mate, you'll tip our hand. I have an idea. It will involve me coming to visit Professor Sprout every day until she leaves. I'll play the weeping student losing his favorite teacher. You'll be the angry git who's irritated by everything I do. Right?"

"Git?" Harry scowled.

"I'll treat you like one. I want you to get used to hearing it. The plan is, I take cuttings from every plant I touch. I take them home, get them into soil, and accelerate their growth until I'm sure they're viable, follow me?" Harry nodded, already visualizing various disasters that could disrupt even this portion of the scheme. "Right. Then, the day after Professor Sprout leaves, the plants in the greenhouses - the ones I have viable cuttings from - start to die."

"The day after? Neville..."

"We don't have a lot of time, Potter. The plants start to die. You floo me, or owl me, or whatever, and say you have a disaster. I refuse to help as long as you're the greenhouse boy, and I get in touch with Dumbledore. I tear him a new hole for using such an incompetent, and offer to save his arse... or at least to save him a lot of money... by bringing in replacement plants from my private collection."

"Are you sure you don't hate me, Neville?"

"Everyone is going to think I do," Longbottom replied with a bit too much relish. "I make a deal. I serve the rest of the term break in Herbology in return for replacing the plants the school needs. Dumbledore can do what he wants with you. He might even make you be my helper. Which will give us plenty of opportunity to show how poorly we get on together."

"So you'll be the saviour, and I'll be the goat."

Neville met Harry's eyes with a sympathetic look. "It will have to look that way, Harry. But Professor Sprout told me you've really been trying, and that you've made great progress. It's just that... well, you don't have the Herbology touch. And you haven't been concentrating on the subject for several years, as I have. So I'll be publicly furious with you. And if it looks like I'm enjoying myself doing it... it's all for show, mate." He extended his hand, and Harry shook it with a curious feeling of formality, as though the two boys were cementing a business proposition. Agreeing to be enemies for the sake of their friendship. It felt very odd. "There's one more thing, Harry. Did you really set four broomsticks on fire with one Incendio?"

Harry laughed, and told the story of his encounter with the four Slytherins. Neville paid particular attention to the part of the story that took place before the actual fight, and once the tale was finished, he asked about what Goyle had said. "I don't understand," Harry said honestly. "It was like he was out to kill me, but Malfoy or somebody might offer me some sort of payoff on behalf of Voldemort."

"Which you would..."

"Shove back in their stinking faces," Harry spat. He turned thoughtful. "Neville. We have to be able to get together like this - off school grounds, I mean - so we can plan. I don't know what Goyle or Crabbe or Malfoy are going to do next, and I don't know if they're going to be coming after you, as well. And with Dumbledore acting insane, and Professor Sprout leaving... I think we need to be able to get together, compare notes, and... be able to count on each other."

Neville thought about that for a moment. "Right. We'll work it out. Now, let's go back to Herbology. You do some more chores, I get a cutting or two, and we look like we're going to tear each other's throats out at a moment's notice, right?" Harry nodded. "Somehow," Neville grinned, "I think Professor Sprout will understand what we're up to."

The rest of the afternoon was brutal. Harry cleaned up after Professor Sprout's pruning, while Neville made nasty comments about how little the summer help understood what he was doing, and Professor Sprout pretended not to notice the snarling antagonism between the two boys. Harry mixed ingredients for fertilizer, including some fresh manure from Hagrid's paddocks, which Neville suggested should best be mixed by hand. Professor Sprout considered the merits of that suggestion for a while before handing Harry a shovel with which to do the work. Late in the day, Harry had more dirt to carry, as the professor and her star pupil sat lounging and talking. Harry hoped that Neville had used the opportunity to collect his cuttings.

When the day was over, and Harry trudged toward the castle for a bath and change of clothes, he was met halfway to the entrance by a relaxed, smiling Remus. "Ready for some serious 'Malfoy hunting' tonight, Harry?" the man teased gently.

Harry only groaned.

"Get washed and changed in a hurry. Professor Snape wants to leave school grounds in less than half an hour."

"Remus. Dirt is heavy. Water is heavy. Dirt soaked with water is heavy. Water full of dirt is heavy. I have carried all of those things in the past hour. I won't mention what is smelly, what is thorny, what harbors biting insects, and what brings out a rash wherever it touches skin. But I have carried all of those today, as well. I feel like sinking to the bottom of the tub and staying there until morning. By the way, I start work at seven tomorrow, too."

"Good," Remus enthused unrepentantly. "In a real emergency, you will never look nor feel your best. The best practice you can have for the really hard times is hunting for Malfoys when you're sick and tired. And you're not even sick. Besides, we're giving you a chance to wash and change - because it would be a hardship on Professor Snape and me if you were not allowed to wash. So hurry up. There's lots to do tonight!" Remus leaned against the castle's entryway and left Harry to go get ready by himself.

The Fat Lady was pleased to see the sedate pace at which Harry climbed the stairs, until she saw the condition the boy was in. Then she was concerned. And when he drew close enough, she wrinkled her nose and held her goblet in front of her face. "Oh... Dear!" she exclaimed as Harry looked wearily up at her. "What on Earth...?"

"Oblivious," Harry sighed heavily, and dragged himself through the portrait hole and up the stairs toward the baths.

In considerably less than half an hour, he was back out and down the stairs, dressed in muggle style jeans and a t-shirt, with a zipper-front, hooded sweatshirt for warmth, and his best athletic shoes for traction. A bath had made him feel better, but he was still tired and muscles all over his body still ached. He met his two escorts at the foot of the stairs. Snape turned toward the front door before Harry was off the stairway. "Come on," he urged sourly, striding away. Remus and Harry struggled to catch up, and Harry had to trot in order to keep pace. The three did not head to the Hogsmeade path this time. They took a long route around the castle toward an edge of the Forbidden Forest. Remus knew that just off school grounds in that direction was a ward-free area that Snape used as an apparation point. Harry was merely confused.

When they had crossed the boundary, leaving Hogwarts property, Snape turned and glared at Harry. "Does Neville Longbottom know?"

Harry had expected some question of this sort - he hadn't expected it to come so soon, though. Marshalling his feelings to keep from being intimidated by Snape's accusatory manner, he replied as calmly as he could. "Neville Longbottom is learning. He has realized that Dumbledore is acting strangely. He and I agreed to work together to get him back in the greenhouses before summer is over. And to keep up the appearance that our argument is continuing. That's all... so far."

Snape's disdainful expression did not change much... but he was pleased, and Harry could tell that the professor approved of his answer. Harry hoped that both Snape and Remus would approve of his plan to recruit Neville to their cause as soon as possible, but he didn't risk pushing his luck just then.

"You have made remarkable progress, Mister Potter," Snape said with a raised eyebrow. "I was unable to effectively listen in upon your meeting with Mister Longbottom, and I suspect that our Headmaster also remains uninformed as to the content of your discussion. Well done."

It came as a surprise to him, but Harry felt his chest swell with pride at the praise. Then he felt strong arms around him, and the sickening falling sensation of apparation. He blinked and looked around. He, Snape and Remus stood in a large, stone building. About half of the floor space was covered with boxes, piled in stacks which reached halfway to the ceiling. Harry was disoriented, and also puzzled. He knew that, in order to safely apparate to a place, the wizard doing the apparation had to have been there previously. "How did you...?"

"I arranged to meet one of the twins this afternoon," Snape explained with hardly a hint of a sneer. "He brought me here and made certain I was sufficiently familiar with the layout that I could return easily. That is also when I learned the correct time to show up. Saturday is, apparently, a busy day for the..." Snape cleared his throat before forcing himself to say, "...Wizard Wheezes shop. One of the Weasleys will be here to greet us on his dinner break, then we will be on our own for... oh. Mister Weasley. Good evening."

"Professor Snape," one of the twins called heartily from the office door far across the building from where Harry stood. "Glad you could make it." By his voice, Harry thought it was George. But he was frustrated to realize that without the other twin to contrast with, he couldn't be sure.

"Please don't inconvenience yourself any further on our behalf," Snape said with a graciousness that astounded Harry. "I appreciate that you have given up a good deal of your dinner hour to be here to greet us. Thank you."

"No inconvenience at all, Sir," the twin replied with a grin. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to see the lad here put through some of his paces... or exercises, or what have you."

"I doubt that we'll have much that would prove to be entertaining on the first night. The first lesson we have to learn is how we are to practice what has been, up to this time, impracticable."

"Why don't we start with drawing out a space for you to use?" Weasley suggested. "Will you be needing the test room tonight, or just a wide-open space?"

"I'm not sure," Snape studied Harry as though some marking on him would reveal the level of magic that he might be able to conjure forth this evening. "Why don't we begin with open space?"

"Easily done. This early in the season, our storage space is nearly empty. We'll release new jokes and tricks starting with the return to school in September, then build up to a peak for Christmas, then let the stock sell back down to coast through summer. There's plenty of open space now. Here, Harry. Set yourself up near this stack of boxes. Cast spells that way and you have meters of emptiness before you."

Harry waited for the redhead to turn and start to leave before calling, "Oh, George?" He was rewarded by the twin turning and waiting for his question. 'I thought it was George… I must have guessed right,' Harry congratulated himself, as he pointed toward the boxes arrayed behind him and wondered, "Is any of this stuff explosive?"

"What, that stuff?" George laughed dismissively. "That stuff is just... it's a bunch of old... you know, it's.... yes. Yes, it is. All of it. Very delicate and violently explosive. Have fun!"

Over the next forty-five minutes, Harry vainly tried to recall what 'fun' was like, as both Snape and Remus tried to coax wild magic from him. He tried remembering what the four-broom attack had been like, concentrating on the danger, and trying to remember his reaction to it. Nothing. He tried imagining that he was being attacked and trying to make up a spell to counterattack with. Nothing. He even tried repelling minor curses thrown at him by both men. He turned his wand the way he had last Tuesday, and shouted 'Repellimus!' repeatedly. Every time, the curse got through, and had to be dispelled by one of the adults. Harry got leg-locked, petrified, confusticated, and put to sleep. He got sick of hearing 'Finite Incantatum.' After the 'Repellimus' test, he tried improvising, shouting 'No!' or 'Back!' and waving his wand around like a toddler playing at fencing. Useless. He was bent over to rest his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, wet with sweat, and in pain from the after-effects of a just-released leg lock when he heard Remus shout, "Harry!"

He didn't even have time to turn around. From the corner of his eye, he saw the stack of boxes falling, and knew they would land right where he stood. There was no time to move, and trying to cover his head with his hands would be a last, useless gesture before he was crushed. But he could not have described his situation in those terms at that moment. Complex, logical statements like 'no time to move,' did not cross his mind. Impressions and images did. In a flash he felt, rather than thought, 'Big - fall - crush,' and his empty left hand flew up in what seemed a futile effort to order the falling boxes to stop.

Which is exactly what they did.

They did not stop instantly, or remain motionless. It was not as though a film had stuck on a single frame. The boxes twisted and slipped on one another, seeking another path to answer gravity's summons. the middle of the toppled pile bulged, as though it were going to defy Harry's impertinent order and fall on him anyway. But slowly, the stack reversed its collapse, curving delicately upward, each box placing itself more or less squarely on the box below it, regaining stability for the pile, returning the upset crates to a secure position. As the last container settled back into place, Harry let his knees collapse beneath him, and sat hard on the stone floor, his head down, his right hand toying with his unused wand. Remus and Snape were immediately kneeling to either side of him, urging him to think.

"What did you do?"

"How did it feel?"

"Was there sensation in your left hand?"

"Did your wand react to the spell as you cast it?"

But Harry's mind was blank. He had no answers, except for this: 'I had to do it.'

And there it was. Necessary Magic. Harry couldn't remember if he coined the phrase on the spot, if he came up with it that night, or if he had heard it somewhere else. But that was what it was, and that was how he called it from then on: Necessary Magic. Like making the glass in the Snake House at the zoo disappear, freeing the friendly python and trapping the horrible Dudley: Necessary Magic. Like blowing up his Aunt Marge, when she began drunkenly insulting his parents so vehemently that his only other choice would have been to kill her: Necessary Magic. Like the way he had somehow called to Fawkes the phoenix and drew forth the Sword of Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat when he was trapped in the Chamber of Secrets: Necessary Magic. He tried to explain it to the adults, but Snape only became more and more frustrated at his ramblings, and Remus began to look worried.

"He needs to stop for the night, Severus," the werewolf said. "He needs to go home, go to bed and get a fresh start for tomorrow. He's done well."

"I suppose he has," Snape said, obviously dissatisfied. "Mister Weasley. Your help is deeply appreciated."

George walked out from behind the stack of boxes, carrying the long, metal tile-ripper with which he had upset the stack of crates. "Stellar job, Harry," he enthused, showing a thumbs-up sign. "You got the whole stack. Let me know if you're free for next warehousing season. You'd be a winner! You didn't even blow up any of them."

"And what if I had, you moron? You were standing right behind them!"

"Oh, Harry, do you really think I'd put myself in danger that way? This entire set of cartons holds nothing but our new, never-before-marketed HeliuWhirlies. Not only could you not have blown them up, if it had looked as though you were even close to getting squashed, I would have hit the whole stack with the triggering spell, and my problem for the rest of the night would have been prying them back down off the ceiling.

Sitting on the cold, stone floor, Harry began to laugh. It was not until his next meeting with the Weasley twins that the phrase 'Un-Necessary Magic' occurred to him, but as soon as he mentioned it to the twin who had toppled the stack of boxes, it became a favorite in-joke between him and George Weasley.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

By the time they had returned to the castle, Harry was feeling decidedly more energetic. As Snape, Lupin and Potter approached the front entrance, the boy was nearly ready to suggest going back for more magic testing.

Walking easily through the pleasant July night, Remus chuckled and spoke up first. "Feeling better, are you?" Harry looked at the man in surprise and nodded. "That's to be expected. You ended your trial on a positive note. We gave you a problem that you solved skillfully, and now you think you're ready for more. You're not. But you should remember the feeling. If you ever have to motivate someone else..." he winked slowly. "... you may want to use the same technique. Let your subject have a good experience to end with, and the lesson will be remembered positively."

"Bah," Snape's dissension was cold and filled with contempt. "Coddle your students and they will learn to work while being coddled. Push someone with challenges more and more difficult until they fail, and you will see which ones are strong enough to try harder, and which ones are pathetic enough to give up."

"Gods, Severus, do you actually send your students away from class each session with a failure as their last impression of their work?"

"Not all of them," Snape drawled with a pointed look at Harry. "And not any of those who do their class assignments correctly. Which is especially generous considering that completing those assignments correctly is a lot easier than it should be. I can only work with what I am given, Mister Lupin. If students come to my class unaware of the properties of magical ingredients, or..." another glare in Harry's direction. "... a complete ignorance of the concepts of magic theory, I must teach remedially before I may direct the students' efforts onward to more profitable exercises. Thus it is that in third year, we are still brewing Shrinking potions, which any competent first year should be able to complete by term's end. And in many cases, such simple concoctions are prepared so poorly that the resulting brew is a danger to man and beast. Not to mention the cauldron-killers that Neville Longbottom habitually cooks up."

"So," Remus pretended to consider Snape's answer with the pompous gravity of a man about to purchase a used broomstick. "You think we should have been out..." Snape's eyes flicked warningly toward the castle. Remus smiled and half-nodded in acknowledgement of the caution. "... out hunting Malfoys until Harry was so tired he collapsed? Perhaps we could have found whether he was strong enough to get up and go to work tomorrow morning." Harry looked at Lupin in shock. He had thought that everyone knew how dangerous it was to taunt Snape. His worry proved to be well founded.

Snape's eyes narrowed as his nostrils flared. In a voice tightly controlled, he growled, "I do not appreciate being mocked, wolf. Especially when I have graciously submitted to the indignities of being a babysitter and dragging a boy along with me on Order business." Harry could hear the sound of the potions professor's breath, and saw that his fists were clenched at his sides.

Remus' smile disappeared, and he seemed generally remorseful. "I apologize, Severus, for..."

Snape cut him off imperiously. "Mister Lupin, have I ever been so inappropriately familiar with you?" The werewolf was genuinely puzzled. He looked a question at the other man. "Oh, don't play dumb!" Snape spat. "You have deliberately used my first name extensively since your return to Hogwarts. I appreciate that you are feeling more confident these days. I am sure that you have dealt with what muggles would call your 'neuroses.' But that excellent progress in dealing with your personal issues does not give you license to abuse me and my continuing tolerance of you."

"Professor Snape," Remus said humbly. "Please believe that I only used your familiar name in the spirit of friendship. I believe that we were working together effectively, despite the difficulties your summer's obligations have placed upon you. I hope for your good will, and failing that, would appreciate your continued tolerance. I am truly sorry if I have offended you."

Snape stared. He blinked, then stared again. Remus did not laugh, did not seem to be suppressing a grin, did not look toward the boy to share a private joke. Neither did he turn away, or scowl, or resort to an argument or an insult. Severus waited for some time for any of these things to occur, but somehow, surprisingly, none of them did. "Very well," he said brusquely. "Apology accepted. Please excuse me. I have work to do." He turned and walked swiftly... but particularly stiffly... toward the stairs leading down to the dungeons.

Remus turned to Harry with an unreadable expression. "I think we're all still friends, don't you?" the werewolf asked quietly. Harry simply shook his head, still trying to figure out what he had just seen. Snape had seemed sort of regretful over objecting to Remus' way of addressing him. He had, as Harry thought about it more, seemed almost embarrassed. The way he had accepted Remus' apology had sounded like an apology of its own. But coming from Snape, that was almost too much to believe. Remus broke the mood with a cheerful invitation. "Are you hungry? Why don't we get the house elves to bring us something in the dining hall?"

Harry shook his head. "You're a Gryffindor, aren't you? Let's eat in the common room. The hall is..." he thought about the long, empty tables in the room that so often rocked with childish rambunctiousness. "... too big," he finished, realizing that he had once again failed to convey what he really meant.

But somehow, Remus seemed to understand. With a smile, and a friendly arm around the boy's shoulder, he said, "I haven't been into the Gryffindor common room in quite some time. I'd love to have a bite there. Tell me, is the Fat Lady still guarding the portal?"

The two friends climbed the stairs toward that very portrait, guarding the entrance to the cozy, comforting atmosphere of the Gryffindors' favorite gathering place.

--- --- ---

The instant the house elves appeared, Harry realized he had missed an important lesson once again. How Remus had been able to send a summons to the elves was a mystery. And Harry had been right there and had missed it. He resolved to ask once the meal was over and the elves themselves no longer present.

Remus ordered a full and very detailed repast for himself. He sounded as though he were placing an order at a restaurant. Harry kept waiting for the elf to suggest an alternative choice, or say that the kitchens were out of some ingredient, but instead, the longer and more complex the werewolf's order became, the broader the smile on the elf's face grew. By the time Lupin had described his desired dessert, the elf was nearly dancing in place with enthusiasm. He turned to Harry with anticipation. "And what would Mister Harry Potter, Sir, like to have?"

"Uh...," Harry mumbled uncertainly, a bit put off by the elf's energetic manner. "Wouldn't it be easier if you just made two of whatever Mister Remus Lupin is having?" He could have kicked himself for reflexively falling into the elf's ultra-formal mode of address. His response had sounded mocking and snotty even in his own ears. But that was not what offended the elf.

"Easy is for little wizards who don't know their spellses yet," the elf sniffed. "We is house elves. We make the feastses for everybody."

Harry wasn't sure that what the elf had said really made any sense, but the little fellow certainly seemed to have taken offense, and Harry felt obligated to say something positive to help make up for that. "You... uh... sure do," Harry said, hoping his clumsy attempt wouldn't insult the elf any further. "I've loved them for five years, already. One of the first really great things I remember about coming to Hogwarts was the welcoming feast."

This apparently mollified the elf. "Good thing you remember. Welcoming feastses meant to calm and soothe, make little wizards feel at home - make bigger wizards feel welcome back."

Harry supposed this explanation was a peace offering of sorts, but he really wasn't sure. House elves were strange creatures, difficult to understand under the best of circumstances. And since Harry's introduction to them had been Dobby - who was strange even by house elf standards - the boy thought that he would never properly understand them at all. He took this one's expectant silence as a signal that he should order, so he asked for a meal that he had envied other children for all during his life with the Dursleys... a hamburger dinner. He really didn't know what a real commercially prepared hamburger sandwich was supposed to be like, since his aunt and uncle would never have considered buying him one, but he had heard kids at his elementary school describing them. So he ordered a 'hamburger,' and trusted the house elves to make something good. He asked for fried potatoes, and both a milk shake and a carbonated soda on the side, and since he thought he remembered something about lettuce and dressing being involved, he ordered a salad with thousand island dressing to begin the meal.

The house elf seemed pleased. "That's much better," he said with a sharp nod. "It is not for Mister Harry Potter, Sir, to be deciding what is or is not easy for house elves." He apparated away with a small pop, and Harry was once again amazed at how easily - and quietly - house elves could accomplish that particular piece of magic when compared to humans.

Remus had been pulling a small table and a pair of chairs together at the center of the room. As soon as the elf apparated away, he turned and saluted Harry. "You're making some progress," he said with a broad smile. "The welcome feasts are a particular point of pride to the Hogwarts' house elves, and so it was particularly clever to have brought that up when you did."

"How do you know?" Harry asked. "About the feasts... how the elves feel... all of that," he finished lamely, wishing he could for once say what he meant without fumbling and mumbling a vague suggestion of what he had in mind.

"I talked to them," Remus said, watching Harry's reaction closely. As he had expected, Harry's face contorted in distaste at the idea of prolonged conversation with the elves. "You'll have to learn how to speak with people with whom it is difficult to communicate," Remus urged. "It won't always be just your friends..." he stopped speaking immediately as two elves popped into the common room, each bearing a platter of salad.

"Radicchio Rumble?" one inquired in a snootily detached manner. Remus raised a finger and the salad plate slid onto the table silently.

"And Thousand Islands Iceberg Delight!" enthused the other elf, placing the plate opposite Remus' selection with a flourish. Harry thought the elves were enjoying this whole scene as a kind of dress-up game. They were playing at being different kinds of waiters in completely different kinds of restaurants. Harry restrained himself from applauding the performance, but one of the elves caught his delighted expression, and shot him a sly 'you got the joke' look before he apparated away. Harry began to see how the house elves might be more interesting than he had previously expected.

The Gryffindor common room was furnished in what one student had described as 'early comfortable.' The chairs were, for the most part, very soft, and cushions covered nearly every surface that might conceivably have been used to sit upon. Remus had found the two straightest, firmest chairs to use at their dining table, and as he sat, he drew his wand from his pocket and laid it on the table, near the center. Harry, still dressed in his muggle-style attire that had served well for the magic practice session, could see that sitting for dinner with a wand in his pocket would be uncomfortable. As Remus took his seat, Harry drew his own wand and laid it gently across Remus' wand, forming an 'X' near the table's center. He sat, took a deep breath and picked up his fork to begin enjoying the salad course of his hamburger dinner. It was hard to explain, even to himself, but sitting down to consume this pile of iceberg lettuce and sweet dressing seemed as much a victory over the Dursleys' domination of his life as staying at Hogwarts over the summer. He had worked a full day, gone out for serious magic practice, come back to his beloved common room with one of his favorite men in the entire world, and was about to have a hamburger meal. As much as the Dursleys had denied him, they had ultimately been unable to prevent this from happening. After all this time, he had won. He looked up at Remus, eyes shining. An instant later, he was suddenly on his guard. Something was not right. What was he seeing in Lupin's face? Regret? Remorse? Disappointment? Harry was worried. He put his fork down, and said one word: "What?"

Remus smiled; a sad, wistful expression. "Thank you," he said simply, and fell silent for a moment, staring at the wands arrayed on the table. "I'm flattered." His eyes met Harry's and the boy could see a lifetime of loneliness reflected in them. "A man of my age hardly ever gets the chance to even discuss an offer this exquisite, let alone dine in such surroundings with the one who made it." He heaved a sigh and collected himself. "But there are considerations. Here - eat some salad and I'll tell you about them. The house elves will expect us to be finished with this course in about seven and one half minutes from the time they served it."

"You knew that... by talking to them?" Harry asked, confused about so many things he didn't know what to ask about first.

'Yes," Remus admitted, "and observing them closely. The large salad plates - which I have only seen served to an all-adult crowd - are left in place for nearly fifteen minutes. In those kinds of meals, however, the salad is frequently a main course. Those selections are often served at luncheons during which business is being discussed, and left on the tables even longer than a quarter-hour. The tiny plates, which are frequently served to the children in the dining hall, are expected to last for under five minutes. These, about seven and one half."

Harry stared dazedly at the man. "It's hopeless," the boy moaned suddenly. Remus' look of sympathy was heartbreaking. "All the observation you do... you and Snape both... you see artificial legs when they're hidden under robes, you see lovers breaking up when they think they're being secret about it... for God's sake, you time the average response patterns of house elves to various sized salad plates! What am I doing? I haven't learned to observe anything..."

"Harry," Remus interrupted sternly. "You are very mature for your age, and your potential is truly staggering. But there are things you will have to allow for. Things that impact your hopes and dreams, even as they impact the offer you made. Your age is one." Remus paused and showed Harry a blazingly bright smile that had as much pride in the precociousness of the cub as it did pure mischievous humor. "I'd not have thought you would be making such an offer quite yet. Despite my expectations, you seem to feel you are ready. But your age when compared to mine is an issue. As well as the fact that I was a teacher here... and I am, once again, in a sense, employed by the school... in the capacity of guardian to you. I am charged with keeping you safe, Harry. I think you can see how any fooling around of this particular sort would be inappropriate."

Harry had no idea what particular sort of fooling around was being suggested. He took a bite of salad and was completely distracted from the conversation for a moment. The cool crispness of the lettuce, the sweet tang of the dressing... this was great! It appeared that Remus was enjoying his own plate of bitter-looking greens, though Harry didn't understand how a sour and bitter salad could be enjoyable any more than he understood the conversation of the past few minutes. To cover his own cluelessness, he took another bite of his own salad. Wonderful.

"And, of course," Remus continued, almost as though he were lecturing about Defense Against the Dark Arts once again, "a great deal of a wizard's magic is tied to his sexuality - to his sexual experience, or his virginity, depending on the case."

Harry nearly choked on his salad. He stared at Remus, goggle-eyed. "Don't do that while I'm trying to swallow," the boy protested, then fought to regain his breath. "What does any of this have to do with sex?" Harry immediately regretted having said anything. Remus' face was pleasant, bland - and completely closed. Only moments ago, Harry had felt he able to read so much there. His lack of conversational ability had - momentarily - been ameliorated by the particularly personal and direct communication he had been receiving from Remus' expressions and reactions. Now, the werewolf's countenance might well have been that of a statue, for all the information it divulged.

"I do forget that you were raised by muggles," Remus commented lightly. "As such, you will have remained ignorant of certain social signals that form a very powerful language in the wizard world. As an example: a wizard's wand is always very personally matched to its user. I'll bet you tried out some wands that were completely inappropriate when you first shopped for your own, am I right?" Harry nodded, wishing that Remus would let his mask slip away again, and be as open as he had allowed himself to be mere moments ago. "You know as well," Lupin continued, "that most wizards and witches cannot perform magic at all without some magical focusing device, such as their wands. That is one of the many reasons your 'free-hand' magic so fascinates Professor Snape and me."

Harry nodded again, nearly screaming with frustration. Why wouldn't the man get to his point?

"So a wizard would have to be very comfortable - would have to trust whoever he was with very greatly - in order to put his wand on the table, as mine is."

Harry nodded again, urging Lupin onward with his explanation. What was this all about, anyway?

"And you can understand that any wizard who would put his own wand down on the table with the first one would also feel trust in his companion. Wands on the table mean mutual trust, relaxation, a certain ease in each other's company. But placing one's wand directly across someone else's... making that 'X' in the center of the table - just as ours are arranged now - has a particular, specific meaning to those familiar with wizard customs." Harry nodded, spread his hands, practically leapt across the table to strangle the man. What was the point of all this?

"Placing your wand in that way indicates your issuing an invitation to the person whose wand you have crossed to enjoy sexual intercourse at your soonest mutual convenience."

Harry's mouth hung open even as his eyes bulged. He felt his face flush hot as his mouth became dry. "But... but you're a man."

"Thank you for noticing," Remus replied gently with the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Harry felt stunned, detached from the scene, a slight ringing in his ears. He spoke quietly, but felt as though he were shouting down a long tunnel. "But you.... you're queer?"

Lupin was clearly amused. "I'm surprised you would ask. I daresay that was most of your classmates' first impression of me. 'The shabby queer who teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts.' I heard it more than once. Not precisely accurate, actually. Such childish jibes frequently miss the point. Once a month, I am completely, and aggressively, heterosexual. I would rut with anything female... so long as she were also a werewolf. The rest of the time..." He fell silent, quickly reviewing a lifetime of memories. "The rest of the time, I am mostly lonely. But I find men attractive, and I am quite interested in some of them."

Harry's shock was wearing off. He felt sorry for Remus, living a life he had to describe as 'mostly lonely.' But he was curious, as well. "Who... um... do you find... you know... attractive?"

Remus allowed some of his defensive expressionlessness to drop away. "Ah, the beauty of youth is in its resilience," he sighed. "Eat your salad. Elves will want to clear it away soon." He took a bite of his own and chewed in silence for a moment before offering, "Most of the men I would cite as examples to answer your question would be unknown to you. Muggle movie stars, or television actors, music performers... these men are most often too pretty to be attractive to me. Which makes sense. If one is making a movie, or a television show, or a record, one wants the maximum possible audience to be attracted to the entertainment. In pursuit of this goal, one of the entertainment producer's best allies is the adolescent girl. Girls spread positive word of mouth more effectively than do boys. And since boys - generally - want to date girls, they will be interested in knowing what the girls are interested in. So actors and singers, especially, are given opportunities based on how attractive they will be to adolescent girls."

"And gay men don't like those guys?" Harry was very curious. He followed Remus' explanation closely, trying hard to understand as much as possible.

"Actually, I prefer 'queer,' Harry," Remus corrected gently. "Queer refers to that which is unusual, and remarkably so. I turn into a wolf every full moon. If I don't qualify as 'queer,' I can't imagine who would. But to answer your question: homosexual men prefer just as wide a range of qualities as do any men. Which strikes me as rather ironic. Over the last forty years or so, heterosexual men have been stereotyped rather viciously by the entertainment, fashion, and even the medical industries. 'Real men' are supposed to be attracted to tall, skinny women with huge breasts, long legs, big eyes and tiny chins. Even the producers of commercial pornography went along with that prejudice for a while, though they quickly found that, in order to keep as much money as possible coming in, they had to offer their heterosexual male fans images of actresses who were fat, or short, or small-breasted. Different men like different things. Different gay men like different things. It really does make sense. Eat your salad."

Harry speared some more lettuce with his fork. "I thought you preferred queer."

"I do. Many others don't. Different things. There is one attractive man I can talk about that you do know. I will thank you for not reacting negatively until I have had a chance to explain what I am talking about. The attractive man I mean is Professor Severus Snape."

"Eeuuu."

"Finish your salad. The elves will be clearing away soon. Harry, why do you think Professor Snape frightens his students so?"

"House points," Harry said sourly. "And failing grades. And harassing us while we're trying to work. And he threatens us, as well. We know he can't hurt students, but last term he made Neville feed a potion to his toad, expecting the toad to come to harm. When nothing bad happened to Trevor, Snape took points away from Gryffindor!"

"Really?" Remus said thoughtfully. "And if the Professor were present, would you have given that example?"

"It's true!" Harry insisted, but he checked over either shoulder for a lurking Snape even as he did so.

"I'm sure it is," Remus conceded. "However, I don't believe it's house points and grades that are so frightening about Severus. I do believe that it is his force of personality that terrifies so many - within his class as well as without it. He is very serious, but extremely dull men have been very serious. He is highly dedicated. His life as a spy has been very dangerous, very painful, and - I believe - permanently scarring to him. I would not have you forget that he was not motivated to follow that life by the promise of reward. If you asked him, I'm sure he would tell you something very intellectual about doing what is right, and what a man's obligations are to his society. But he has suffered the difficulties of being a spy in a very evil wizard's court over the course of many painful years for the benefit of every student who walks Hogwarts' halls. But just as there are dull serious men, there are plenty of very boring dedicated men. The first clue you might have to the real Severus Snape is in his voice. Commanding. Demanding. Unforgiving. Why, when he harasses you while you work, do you not tell him to go away? I have heard students say such things and worse to Professor Flitwick. And Professor Binns hardly even recognizes the insults he receives so regularly these days. But Professor Snape? No one says 'buzz off' to Snape, and don't tell me it's fear of losing house points that keeps them silent. The man's presence, his assuredness, his authority - those keep the insults from being voiced."

"So, it's personality more than looks that attracts you?"

Remus grinned. "Personality is more lasting and makes a greater impression. And it overrides more petty concerns when the attractive person is dirty, or tired, or ill... or, as in Severus' case, has deliberately adopted certain affectations in his appearance to help keep him distant from others. I have good reason to believe that the greasiness of his hair actually requires quite a lot of work to maintain. But it helps keep the idly curious at arm's length, which is good for a spy... as well as for a man who does not wish to waste his time with fools. Ignoring the hair, I would have to say that there are many attractive features about Professor Snape. I like his nose, for example. His long fingers and trim frame are very attractive. But I have known men with features such as those who were repellently boring after only a few hours. Severus - despite his lack of interest in me as a potential lover - is still fascinating to me, and I still quite enjoy his company. And I have every reason to believe that I will continue to do so for years to come. Ahhh... that was good. Did you enjoy your... what did they call it? Iceberg Delight?"

Harry was wrenched back to the present by the question. He had been trying to imagine Snape as a sexually attractive person and failing miserably. "Yeah, it was brilliant," Harry said brightly, hoping it was not so very obvious how preoccupied he had been.

As he finished his statement, two elves popped into the room and took away the salad plates. Within seconds, two more had arrived with the main dishes.

Harry's eyes popped. Dimly, he thought that if his face ever froze like this, it would hardly make any difference, since he was looking shocked so often. But the dinner - while not on such a massive scale as the dining hall feasts - was so beautiful that he could hardly believe it. Remus' plate held a tiny rack of ribs, the bones sticking up into the air. That was accompanied by tiny red potatoes shining with hot butter and dusted with flecks of green herb, a dab of green jelly off to the side, and a sprig of something green that looked more like decoration than an actual part of the course. Harry noted what his dinner companion had ordered, then turned his attention back to his own plate. The sandwich was huge. Ground meat, flame-charred on the outside, dripped dark juices onto a thick bun. An even thicker top bun was covered in sesame seeds. Between the top bun and the meat were grilled onions and melted cheese. There was a thin slice of tomato added, and the insides of the buns had been dressed with some sort of relish. All together, the creation smelled like an entire meal put together into a single unit that could be picked up all at once. The smells of the food were carried aloft by the steam that rose above both plates, the aroma of grilled onions in particular tickling Harry's nose. Beside his hamburger, there were potatoes that had been cut into long, thick planks and fried until their outsides were crisp. Harry had enjoyed chips before, of course. Hardly any English boy could have grown up without sampling them, especially as a side dish to fried fish. But these golden, steaming chips were so fresh from the oil they were still too hot to touch, and alongside them, there were several cups of dipping sauces with which to anoint them. He recognized the mayonnaise immediately. He was looking forward to trying out the others. He picked the hamburger up and was confronted with a dilemma. "It's too big to get into my mouth."

For some reason, this struck Remus as particularly funny. The man laughed aloud and Harry thought he could see Remus relaxing again after their unfortunate misunderstanding at the beginning of the meal. "You could put it down on your plate, slice a bit of it off with your knife, then spear the fragment with your fork and eat it daintily," Remus suggested. Harry began to replace the sandwich on his plate when Remus continued, "But only a ponce does that. Grab on, put it up to your face, and bite it, boy."

Hesitantly, Harry did so. And as his mouth flooded with the rich juices, hot cheese and tangy onions, he forgot to worry about how sloppy he might look. Chewing comically on a bite nearly too big to manage, Harry was so clearly enjoying himself that Remus ignored him to sample his rack of lamb. Exquisite. The Hogwarts house elves were masters of the culinary arts. Especially considering that their palates were not even human, they prepared particularly subtle flavors and textures to please the human taste. How they managed to accomplish this was a mystery, but that they did was a fact established over generations of human experience.

Drinks arrived as the first bites were taken. There was wine for Remus, and Harry's soda and shake. The first of Harry's beverages was bubbling with carbonation around clinking ice cubes, the second was in a tall glass with a long, silver spoon, whipped cream topping the whole thing, with a maraschino cherry at the peak of the cream. Taken together, it was quite a lot of food, but when the meal was finished, Harry realized that he had eaten every bite, and while he was full, he was not uncomfortably so. The elves had done an amazing job of estimating exactly how much to serve. As Harry munched his last chip, and Remus returned his final lamb bone to his plate, two house elves popped into the room and began to clear.

"Are you ready for dessert, yet, Sirs?" one asked as he collected Remus' plate and glass.

"Not quite," Remus demurred. "Please bring me a brandy before dessert. Anything for you, Harry?"

The boy was about to shake his head when he decided to be a little different this evening. The entire meal had been rather foreign in influence, so he asked for "Tea. Iced, please. With lemon."

Two discreet pops later, the dishes were gone, tea and brandy were on the table, and a house elf was looking at Remus, waiting for instructions. "About five minutes, I should think," he said with a very contented, relaxed tone. The elf nodded and popped away, and Harry squeezed lemon into his drink, stirring the tea and listening to the unfamiliar sound of ice cubes in a beverage he had enjoyed hot all his life.

"What about you, Harry?" Remus asked companionably. "What do you find attractive?"

For a moment, the boy was stumped. Remus had been so lyrical about his own preferences that Harry felt completely tongue-tied. But he took a sip of tea and thought about it and decided to be as honest as he could. "You know who I was really interested in was Cho Chang. She's pretty." Harry thought about describing what features he found 'pretty,' but realized he didn't have the words to describe Cho's exotic, almost other-worldly face and sleek, supple figure. He went on, deciding that if Remus were interested, he would ask. "She's a good quiddich player, and a Ravenclaw - really smart. I wouldn't want a girlfriend who would embarrass me by being stupid."

"Especially after being friends with Hermione Granger all through school," Remus grinned.

"Oh... yeah. Can you imagine? I introduce a girl to Hermione and she comes off all dumb? God, I'd never hear the end of it." Harry did imagine the scene, which he could visualize all too clearly, and shuddered. "Anyway, I thought Cho was great. But she was, like, Cedric Diggory's girlfriend. I think they were kind of serious. And every time Cho saw me after the Tri-Wizard Tournament, all she could think of was her boyfriend dying. So, we never... uh... I mean, we spent some time together, and all she did was cry. So... nothing."

"Do you have a girlfriend, Harry? Or a boyfriend? Or someone you're working on?"

"Nah," Harry said, trying to be casual, but his dismissal came out bitter. "Boy Who Lived, you know. Everybody expects me to be really strong, or totally great, or super smart, or all-wise or something. They're disappointed the first time I make a mistake. It's like, anytime I don't live up to their expectations, I betrayed them, or did something bad to them. You don't make many friends that way. Then a lot of people wonder why I haven't killed Voldemort already, if that's what I'm supposed to do with my life. It's like they think I'm milking the legend for all it's worth, getting some kind of benefit from being famous. So those people don't trust me, and you don't get girlfriends by having them start out not trusting you. And then there's a bunch of people who think the whole 'Boy Who Lived' legend is a crock, and that I'm putting on airs and that I'm full of shite. Bad way to start out. 'Oh, yes, Potter. You're the bugger who thinks he's better than everyone 'cause of some bullshite legend.' It goes nowhere fast. You know why I've been friends with Ron for so long? Because he gets totally ticked off at me. People say that's the reason I ought to stay clear of him. But they've got it all wrong. I like that about Ron. It's the closest to normal anyone has ever treated me. I mean, he overdoes it, and there have been times I want to smack him one for being a git. But at least he doesn't give me the old 'Boy Who Lived' bollocks."

"Mmmm," Remus hummed thoughtfully, making no comment on Ron either way. "And how is his sister?"

Harry's shoulders dropped. "You aren't still on about Ginny, are you?"

Remus shrugged. "I am curious. There seems to be something more than meets the eye going on there," he said with a questioning eyebrow raised.

"And what does your wolf side think?"

Remus narrowed his amber eyes. "What makes you ask that?"

"Just a hunch. But you called me James' cub, and I thought it was kind of important."

"You're right," Remus admitted. "The Wolf is very perceptive. It... oh, just wait a moment."

Harry was surprised to see Remus literally sniffing the air, then concentrating as though trying to remember something from long ago. Finally, the man said, "I'd have to have Ginny here in person to be sure. But from what I can recall... the Wolf thinks the idea of the two of you being romantically linked is absurd."

"Thank God someone does," Harry grumphed. "It doesn't seem that mysterious to me. Would I like a young, pretty, red haired girl to be excited about me? Yes. Would I like to date Ginny Weasley? No."

Fortunately for the conversation, which had slammed into a dead end with Harry's last emphatic statement, the desserts were served at that very moment. Remus had some sort of delicate meringue arrangement that came to the table with flames licking over its surface. The fire went out in seconds, and the aroma of warm, sweet meringue filled the air. Harry, having had ice cream with his meal, had asked for cake, and the cake that arrived was exactly what he had been hoping for. The cake was a rich, spongy chocolate, so dark it seemed nearly black. It was divided into several layers. Between each layer was a ribbon of deep, chocolate icing. The outside of the cake was covered in a light, whipped chocolate frosting. Despite having had a big dinner only minutes previously, Harry's mouth watered, and he found himself craving cake as though he had been starving all day. The elves popped away, and both diners applied their attention to dessert.

After a few bites, Harry looked seriously at Remus and told him, "I had thought that the best... really, the only... place to learn about wizard culture was here at Hogwarts. Tonight, I really embarrassed myself." He saw Remus start to protest, and cut the man off. "No, don't excuse me, and don't pretend it wasn't embarrassing. I love you, and I don't care who knows that. I especially want you to know that. But I'm not interested in having sex with you, and I did exactly the wrong thing in that respect."

Remus was deeply pleased. "And I love you, Harry," he said sincerely.

Harry was a bit thrown off by this. "Right. Well. Uh, good. I mean, I'm glad." He collected his thoughts and began again. "What I'm trying to say is that I've been here for five years, and I never understood there was any kind of 'code' with wands. And somebody last term said that my hair was 'right for a surviving son.' I never got to ask her what she meant by that, but she sounded like she was quoting some set of rules I had never heard of. My best friends at school are a muggle-born and Ron... and his family is not too traditional. The most traditional wizard family I can think of are the Malfoys. And they're... well, we're not friends, are we? How am I ever going to learn any of the things that are too delicate or too adult to bring up as part of class?"

"I've been thinking about that tonight. I will be asking a good friend for some advice. By the end of summer, I'm sure we'll have some help for you." They finished their desserts, and Remus excused himself, bidding Harry a good night. The long day and the rich meal finally hit Harry all at once, and he dragged himself up to bed just in time to pull his clothes off and fall on the mattress before he started drifting off to sleep. His last thoughts before slumber took him were that he could have been here with Remus instead of all alone. There were confused images of the werewolf beside Cho Chang, who was not crying but laughing with abandon, the way she often did while playing quiddich; and then Remus was moving easily next to Hermione as she walked down the Gryffindor Tower stairs; and then the man was standing calmly, trying to placate Ginny, who was furious at being ignored all summer. Then Harry fell fully into sleep. His dreams were particularly colorful that night.

--- --- ---

Remus walked down to the dungeons, and as he had expected, he found Snape hard at work. The potions master was quite aware of who was approaching, and as Lupin turned in to the classroom, Severus called out, "Did you enjoy your dinner with the boy?"

Remus refused to be baited. "Yes, I did," he replied easily. "And during our meal, something occurred to both of us. It constitutes a problem to which I cannot see a solution."

"What?" Snape sneered. "The perceptive Lupin cannot see the answer? Perhaps we should consult Professor Trelawney, and have your leaves read."

As though Snape had made no comment at all, Lupin explained, "I think you might agree that, of all people, The Boy Who Lived should understand something of the culture which surrounds wizardry. Actually, given his potential..." Snape flashed a warning look to which Lupin nodded slightly in acknowledgement. "... I think that Harry's ignorance of our customs - the rules of our polite society - pose as much a threat to him as his lack of knowlege regarding magical theory."

"Are you telling me that you want to send the boy to charm school?" Snape asked with distaste.

"Or something," Remus confirmed. "Charm school isn't really the answer though, is it? Harry can learn all the rules of etiquette at Hogwarts. He needs something more... in depth. The things a traditionally raised wizard would know. The kind of thing one of us might not even realize Harry could possibly remain ignorant of. And other things, as well. Negotiation skills. Making a good impression. How to be taken seriously."

Snape leaned back in his chair, ignoring his work for a moment. He stared at Lupin, studying him intently. He came to a decision. "I know someone who could help us. Engaging her aid will pose several problems, however. Tomorrow night when we go out on patrol, I'll discuss it further with you. Until then, I shall need to contemplate some things. By tomorrow evening, I should have some answers. For now, I am busy." He turned back to his labor, apparently ignoring the man standing in his doorway.

"Thank you, Professor Snape," Remus said quietly. "I knew I could count on you." He disappeared down the corridor, leaving the potions master lost in thought.

--- --- ---

Sunday morning dawned bright and clear. Harry dragged himself out of bed to get to work on time, feeling as though he had overextended - not his muscles - but his magic. Which, he supposed, he had. So it wasn't so much a mystery as just very, very odd. When the boy went out toward the greenhouses, Remus followed at a discreet distance. Snape was already absent from the castle.

--- --- ---

When his knock on the modest home's door was answered, Snape made a semi-formal half bow and intoned, "Good morning, Narcissa."

The woman looked more irritated than surprised. "Merlin, Severus!" she scolded. "You're in full robes, right out on the street. What will people... oh, come in!" She stepped back and ushered her visitor into her new home.

Seemingly apropos of nothing, Severus casually inquired, "Have you had your house blessed, yet, Narcissa?"

"Blessed?" Narcissa scowled. "If you've come all this way just to irritate me with nonsense riddles, you've wasted your time. I'm well beyond irritation already."

"Nothing of the sort," Severus dismissed her protests contemptuously. "I am merely pointing out that, to many of your new neighbors, neglecting the accepted religious ceremonies associated with moving into a new dwelling is much more shocking than wearing unusual clothing. To any of your neighbors who might have noticed, I am nothing more than your loyal clergyman, taking time out from his many Sunday duties to visit your new home. And, presumably, to bless the abode. If you'd like, I could stand outside and make prayerful gestures at the entryway in order to cement the impression."

"No, Severus," Narcissa repled firmly. "I am trying to begin my residence here with as little drama as possible. The last thing I need is for you to put on a mime show for the neighborhood. Why do you have to be this way?" Impatiently, she pushed a stand of hair out of her face.

The gesture caught Severus' attention immediately. "Hmmm," he murmured noncommittally as he stared into Narcissa's eyes, then flicked his gaze quickly over her from head to toe. "Laudanum, Narcissa?"

"Yes, laudanum," she snapped back, then turned and led her guest into the sitting room. She gestured vaguely toward a chair without voicing an invitation to sit. She remained standing, herself, the wide window's closed drapes at her back. Quite a lot of light came flooding in through the light-colored window coverings, and with her back to the window, her face was shadowed, hiding some of the strain that showed in her features. Severus remained standing as well, still looking expectantly for a fuller answer to his question. With an irritated sneer, Narcissa elaborated. "I indulged last night. Happy Saturday for Ms. Black. A soothing dose of chemical sympathy for a shattered life, a lost fortune and a husband awaiting execution. Do you blame me?"

"Yes," Severus replied matter of factly. "You're hurting yourself."

"Oh, thank you for your concern," Narcissa returned nastily. "I certainly wouldn't want to do myself harm. Who could have possibly have put such temptation in my way? Could it have been, oh, Severus Snape, for instance?"

"Of course I obtained your laudanum for you," Snape said stiffly. "Opiates - especially the old-style preparations such as laudanum - figure in to the brewing of many potions. I could obtain the substance without involving muggles, or their tiresome drug laws. I have known you were a user for many years."

"Delicately put," Narcissa sniffed. "I was a 'user.' Nicely insinuating of you. I admit I enjoyed getting high enough to hallucinate on the stuff from time to time. But somehow, I never developed a habit, did I? I could do without for years at a time, then indulge heavily, then forget all about it again. Right now, I need a crutch. I fully expect to be able to heal, and to throw the crutch away. But for the moment..."

"And how many nights have you indulged in the opiate during the two weeks since I last saw you?"

"Five," Narcissa declared defiantly, then remembered what day it was. "And Friday... and last night... makes seven. So... yes, about half the time. But it's only been two weeks, Severus. I'm on the run, nearly out of money, and Lucius is sitting in jail. He has not even been put on trial yet, and the dementors are already lining up anticipating the execution."

"If the Ministry were to set him free today," Severus said in sad sympathy, "you wouldn't want him back."

"You mean I wouldn't run to him like a schoolgirl, take him home, make love with him and joyously plan our next adventure. That's correct, as far as it goes, but you've missed some very important points in your analysis of my life. You're very smart in many ways, Severus, but an awful lot of life is less about the brain and more about the heart. I was married to Lucius for nearly two decades. I lived in his ancestral mansion, spent his money, slept with him and somehow managed to survive his political aspirations. He's the father of my son. And now he sits imprisoned, waiting to die. I can take no joy in that. You and he were rivals. For a while, it seemed you were enemies. You may feel some kind of triumph, or at least relief, now that he's going to be killed. I cannot.

"Lucius was vicious, and extremely selfish," Severus insisted.

Eyes half-lidded, Narcissa swayed slightly as though to music audible only to herself. A slow smile crept across her face. "That's what made him a good lover," she purred.

"Are you still under the influence of laudanum?" Severus said impatiently.

"No. The prudes always lump sex and drugs together. Really, they're very separate things. I always had my best sex while sober. And as long as I had good sex, I never even thought about taking drugs. But one of my biggest regrets of the last few years is that Lucius was too busy with his great plans to be... selfish... with me, anymore. I don't know if he presumed I would take a lover or whether he just didn't care. Either way, it's painful for me. Being married was important to me, my husband's intimate interest and excitement was important to me. It hurts to be ignored, or considered superfluous. That is like denying the importance of my entire life. When Lucius and I were in school together, my biggest hope for success was to make a good marriage. I knew that from the time I was about nine years old. And when I grew up - what a pleasant surprise! I was pretty. I had a few other things going for me. Had I been either rich enough that I had not needed a good marriage, or so hopelessly poor that there would have been no chance for one, I could have done well enough for myself. But I was just well-off enough to be able to marry up, and lo! I was pretty. So that became my major field of study. Makeup, hairstyles, clothing. Parties, social graces, clever conversation. And sex. I particularly liked sex. And I was good at it. I would exhaust boys and then beg, 'just a little more, please.' Damn if I didn't get it, most times. Or leave the ones who couldn't deliver ashamed of themselves - and desperate to please next time."

"I'm shocked that the scion of the Malfoys would have negotiated an alliance with such damaged goods."

"I wore white at my wedding. And no one breathed a word about any impropriety, even though the audience was filled with men who, as boys, had fucked me until they could no longer move. I like to think that they were all jealous of Lucius. I think I saw that in their faces. But they all knew my requirements, and they all knew that, as rich as they all were, none of them were rich enough. Lucius was."

"So the prize fuck of wizard Britain went to the highest bidder."

"That's what everyone thought," Narcissa admitted with a shrug. "It was obvious from any distance that he was rich and I was pretty. But if people presumed I was a whore, at least I was a very expensive one. And that changes people's attitudes very radically. If I had been middle class, I would have been 'Cissa the Slut.' As it was, I was 'Lady Malfoy.' But people were wrong about Lucius. He wasn't just rich. He was a powerful wizard. He could use magic with ease and grace. He was creative, as well. He could cast a binding spell... just after we were married, I squirmed in one for hours while he toyed with me. I had expected him to laugh or mock me, but he didn't even do me the courtesy. Instead, he made demands of me, as though my being bound before him while he relaxed was the most natural thing in the world. He did a lot of things like that, and I loved it. You might not understand that, Severus. But my first few years of living with that man were heavenly because of those very things that most people would call grounds for divorce. But in the last few years... If I did not have my son, I might not believe I ever did have sex with my husband."

"Where is Draco?"

"Bicycle trip," Narcissa shrugged. "He's following a muggle trail called the 'Tour de Force.' It should be safe enough. Mostly muggles, so it's unlikely he'll be recognized, and they have something called the 'hostiles' to keep order. Any police force that can earn that title must be rather serious, don't you think?"

Snape ignored the question. "Where on Earth did Draco Malfoy get a bicycle?"

"From a girl he met at the Xenophon course."

"Xenophon?" Severus pounced on the assertion suspiciously.

"Public day," Narcissa assured him. "We're not trying to sign up for the Club quite yet. He met a girl, and called her a 'brilliant flier.' Naturally, I was suspicious, but Draco usually doesn't lie about anything having to do with flying. Actually, I think he was a little disappointed. The girl seemed to be more interested in impressing the other girls than she was in him."

"Did this brilliant flier have a name?"

"Something Greek," Narcissa said, becoming annoyed.

"Katymedes?" Snape prompted.

Narcissa looked at him with her eyebrows drawn together in a puzzled scowl. "No... something different..."

"Mantsaris?" Snape asked again.

"No, definitely not. Severus, what is..."

"Themyscira?" Snape demanded relentlessly.

"Yes, that's it. Something mythical for a first name. Diana? Persephone? No. Artemis. Artemis Themyscira. Why?"

Because there are some French wizard families of Greek extraction living in this area that might be very beneficial to become involved with, even if only on a casually friendly basis. The Katymedeses or the Mantsarises could be a natural ticket back into polite society for the Blacks. The Themysciras, however, are rather common. Which is not what concerns me. What does concern me is the fact that in Draco's fourth year, the visitors to Hogwarts from Beauxbatons included a French girl with a Greek name: Artemis Themyscira. So either Draco has made up his meeting with the brilliant flier, and used a name he remembered from school in order to sound plausible... or he has been discovered."

Narcissa's voice was quiet, but powered by fury. "He didn't lie... about that. Not about the girl. He met her, I could tell that." She stood motionless, her body tensing, muscles clenching harder and harder until Severus could hear her teeth grind. "Damn," she barely whispered. Then, "Damn," she said out loud. Then, "Damn!" she exploded. "I left the country! Country? Hell, I left the entire British Isles! I changed my name! I moved into this!" She spat the last word while waving her arm in a half-circle to indicate her new home. "I ran! I hid! I said 'I give up!' And in less than a week... on the fifth bleeding day here, he gets discovered! Oh, bloody hell, Severus, he's probably been arrested already. He left Friday midday. He's... he's..... Aaaugh!" She collapsed into an armchair, wishing she could cry, trying to force tears to come, hoping for the simple release that weeping could bring. Instead, her mind raced, and she began to plan.

"You said he's following the Tour de France?" Severus interrupted her thinking.

"Yes, he... what did you say?" Narcissa asked with dawning hope.

"I believe I repeated what you told me regarding your son's plans," Severus said ascerbically. "You said he was going to follow the muggle race course called the Tour de France..."

"Hah!" Narcissa barked in triumph. "The lying little shite. He couldn't even get the name right. He claimed he was going on something called the Tour de Force. There's no such thing, is there? Do you know anything about the Hostiles?"

Severus grinned wickedly. "It sounds as though he was trying to tell you he was planning to stay in Youth Hostels. Frankly, I can no more imagine Draco Malfoy sleeping on the rough wooden floor of a shelter for lazy - and poor - young adults travelling the continent than I can picture him peddling his way around the countryside alongside the aspiring athletes of the muggle middle class."

"Oh, Draco," Narcissa chanted quietly to herself. "I learned a lot about punishment from your father. You have quite a surprise in store when you arrive home..."

"Seriously, that may not be the best course of action," Snape interjected calmly.

"What? Severus Snape goes soft?" Narcissa mocked. "I don't believe it."

"Soft has nothing to do with it," Snape countered with a moue of distaste. "Punishing him may provide a momentary satisfaction. But you want to know what he has been up to.

"Veritaserum," Narcissa snarled.

"Please," Snape said disdainfully. "Is that the best you can think of? Remember, it is not only what you learn from your son, but what lessons he takes from your actions that is important."

"There are plenty of lessons to be learned from veritaserum."

"But not the most profitable ones in this particular case," Snape insisted.

"Locator spell!" Narcissa fumbled for her wand. Snape held out a restraining hand to stop her, reaching nearly far enough to actually touch her.

"I'll cast. You're upset." He drew his wand smoothly and began the incantation. By the time he had spoken only a few words, his wand hovered in midair, its center fixed in one place, the length of it twisting lazily on the gentlest of air currents. "If Draco is anywhere in France, this spell will point him out to us."

Narcissa watched the gently drifting wand as she waited. And waited. She looked up at the puzzled face of the potions master. "Severus?"

"A moment," he said distractedly, and cast a different spell. The wand turned to point west, and Snape watched carefully for the color and intensity of the glow at the tip, which would indicate distance. He scowled, checking his own mental arithmetic, then checking it again. "He's in England."

Narcissa turned pale. "He has been arrested."

"No. Listen to me. I have good information on this. The Ministry is not looking for either of you. But Albus Dumbledore is. He has all of his minions... including me, ironically... out searching all of England for the missing Malfoys. He is convinced that Draco means to inherit Voldemort's operations. If it were not pathetic, the misconception would be amusing. Everyone that Dumbledore has tasked with locating you has insisted that you cannot possibly be anywhere in Britain. Dumbledore counters that you are English nobility, and would not abandon your country. Therefore, the entire Order of the Phoenix is supposedly searching England for you and Draco. However, since no one in the Order believes that you are there - suggestions for your actual location have ranged from America to Australia - I don't believe anyone is actually paying any attention. In a practical sense, we do not want to have Draco followed by minions of Dumbledore. But - unless he has committed some new crime on his own - he has not been arrested."

Narcissa sat back in her armchair and let herself go totally limp. Her face sagged with weariness, her shoulders slumped, her flesh seemed to be trying to melt away from her bones. For an instant, Severus felt a stab of an unfamiliar emotion. Seeing Narcissa so utterly weary, he felt a deep, insistent compassion for her. As the feeling hit him, he felt the urge to reach out to her, to comfort her, to reassure her. The moment passed, and once again, he could see a woman who had very nearly measured up to the enormous challenges of her life, only to fall short at the last, giving in to the weaknesses of love for an evil man and a spoiled boy, a taste for the expensive life of the aristocracy, and the arrogance of the beautiful.

"I can find him," Snape told the exhausted looking woman.

"I suppose you can," she responded dully. "And I would guess you could probably get him out of the country safely... again. And I know that I would owe you - again - a debt that I have no way of repaying."

"And there, you are wrong," Snape said gently. Narcissa looked up suspiciously, unable to divine what the man might mean. "You have knowledge and skills that few possess. And, you have spent years learning how to communicate with others. I have need of your assistance, and if you would consent to provide that assistance, I will consider your debts to me satisfied."

The change in the woman was nothing short of amazing, Snape thought. She had, only moments ago, been lying helplessly, a puddle of unmotivated flesh, despairing and defeated. Without perceptible transition, she was once again energized, alert, ready to bargain. "What would you have me do, Severus?"

"What you should understand all too well," Snape drawled, enjoying the lively suspicion for his offer that sparkled in her eyes. "Let us call it assistant to the kingmakers. The actual kingmaking will be done by myself and my close associates. Your job will be to groom the king-to-be, instructing him in all of those things you studied when you were a youth: hair, clothing, polite conversation, social interaction, negotiation... things a king needs - and which this particular candidate for the throne does not possess."

"What about Voldemort?"

"He has failed. I believe you have known that for years. Even Lucius must see it now. The Lord's program was always too extreme. The constant punishments, the tortures and the killings... they missed the point. Intelligent, talented Death Eaters - the important ones, those upon whom any government of a conquered world would have to be built - joined the organization for strength and discipline, not mad violence and random, destructive tantrums. Voldemort seemed to understand that during the first war. Once he lost that conflict, however, he lost his own ability to decide what was important and what was frivolous. He keeps his followers by fear, now, whereas the veterans of the first war followed because of faith. Few beside the very stupid believe in his program any more. He has admitted to us that he is not attracting the youth of the wizard world. If he is not defeated, his organization will age, and eventually die. His time is over."

"So you're grooming a new candidate for Minister of Magic?"

"No. The current Ministry is totally corrupt. There hasn't been an honest or accurate ballot count in any of the past half-dozen elections. Fudge is not only an idiot, he has surrounded himself with idiots dedicated to his personal brand of idiocy. They are prepared to defend their asylum of a government with violence and the aggressive manipulation of public opinion. In this last regard, they have the full cooperation of the popular media. To date, they have been remarkably successful. That must change. What I intend is nothing less than taking over both the Ministry and Voldemort's organization, and putting my champion at the head of what will be publicly perceived as the government. With the public face of authority presented by this particular wizard, I should have enough freedom to actually run the country without undue interference from well-meaning meddlers and violent revolutionaries."

Narcissa nodded slowly, considering the ramifications of what she had been told. "Better you than Riddle or Fudge," she agreed. "What about Dumbledore?"

"He has been the stumbling block for many years," Severus confirmed. "He will not allow anyone to properly control the nation. He will interfere, and thwart any worthwhile plans, and eventually seize power for himself. He must be defeated. I now have a champion - our figurehead - who is powerful enough to defeat him."

Narcissa smiled. "Sounds good. Do I know this mighty champion?"

"That is one of our main advantages. I think nearly everyone knows him. He is the Boy Who Lived: Harry Potter."

Narcissa appeared to be trying to back away from Snape, pushing herself deeper and deeper into the cushions of her chair. Her head turned from side to side in a repeated attempt to negate Snape's words. "No, Severus. Oh, God, no. Not... not him. Not... Potter," she said as though the name were a curse.

"Yes, Narcissa. Harry Potter. The question surrounding him for the past decade and a half has been whether he is powerful enough to stand against Lord Voldemort. I have discovered that the boy has a reserve of power that will enable him to defeat Tom Riddle, and Albus Dumbledore, and the entire corps of aurors. Deposing Fudge and his Ministry will require some public relations work before the actual seizure of power. But with the magical talent I have seen in that boy, Narcissa, Potter could take - and hold - the entire United Kingdom by himself. It will simply be more practical to have a public ready to be led by the champion who defeated Voldemort rather than have to suppress all resistance by force."

"And I am supposed to make him palatable to the world... and believable as a world leader?" Narcissa asked sarcastically.

"He is young, and often foolish. Your practical advice regarding everything from speaking to important people to good grooming will help us accomplish what we need to accomplish. He must be made presentable. He is the key to our ambitions."

"Great Mordred's Ghost, Severus!" Narcissa protested. "Have you seen his hair?"

Snape willed his face into immobility. It would not do to grin in triumph. Narcissa might take it as an insult, and Severus wanted her to be fully involved, and committed to his cause. "One of the things that convinced me your assistance was absolutely necessary was his unruly locks, Narcissa. The quaint glasses may already be too well associated with him to be readily replaced. But that, too, I leave to your superior judgement."

"If I am going to be an advisor at this stage of the game, I would want some sort of assurance that I will continue to be an advisor once the plan is put into action."

Snape nodded, almost bowing to concede the demand. There would be some further negotiation before he was finished here today, but his mind was at ease on one point: Narcissa Black was on board with his program, and was at least tentatively interested in seeing it through to its conclusion.

--- --- ---

Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, surrounded by a decorator's nightmare of kitschy little knickknacks. There were the kissing children, the wood-sawing dwarves, the drinking bird, the tiny train on its circular track, the spinning windmill and a widely varied collection of snow globes. Like most of what Dumbledore did, however, there were hidden layers of complexity beneath the surface of these items. Concealed within their brightly painted shells was magical detection equipment, as versatile as it was powerful. Most of the knickknacks could be set to any one of a score of different tasks, and all of them had a range that easily covered the entire country. Albus was relaxing, idly using the drinking bird to check for unauthorized dragon flights over Scotland, when his attention was suddenly drawn to the kissing children. There had been some indication that his quarry was found. He watched carefully as the bashful boy blushed a bright red and leaned forward. That meant Draco Malfoy was in range of the detector, and finally away from the powerful masking spells that had hidden him from the headmaster for the past couple of weeks. Reading magic so automatically that he was barely aware of using the spell, he concentrated on the shy girl of the kissing couple. She would reveal Draco's location. The girl turned, puckered her lips and leaned forward. Reading the magical signs, Dumbledore saw that Draco was hundreds of miles to the south. In moments, his exact location would be determined. Albus leaned over his desk, expectantly staring at the device. Suddenly, both of the kissing children reset themselves to their search mode, cheeks losing their blush, postures returning to a relaxed upright. It was as though Draco had suddenly disappeared. Had he gone back under his protective spells? Had he been apparated far away? Had he died? Or had the device malfunctioned, giving a false alarm after picking up some indicator that had nothing to do with Draco Malfoy? Dumbledore sat staring at the uninformative pair of sculpted children, drumming his fingers and wondering what had gone wrong.

--- --- ---

Draco Malfoy considered himself to be a wizard of action. He was a scholar, an athlete, and a true English gentleman. He never hesitated to challenge the gits at school, and he had always felt he would continue his ways once he was an adult in the wider world of wizard Britain. But now, he had been presented with a mystery, and instead of confronting it head-on, he had retreated and held himself aloof from the situation. This made sense, he told himself, since he was trying to remain discreetly undetected in England, while he was supposed to be on a bicycle trip through France. It also made sense to think before acting, and what he had seen required a lot of thought. But now that he had applied quite a lot of thought to the matter, he only had one conclusion that he felt he could count on: if Professor Snape, Werewolf Lupin and Harry bloody Potter were conferring so seriously as they had been in the Weasleys' joke shop, the Weasley twins were definitely a part of whatever was going on. Snape, especially, would not be a customer of the Wizard Wheezes shop, and Lupin was a highly unlikely patron of the place, as well. The two of them - separately or together - might have followed Potter in. But rather than leaving immediately, as Snape would have demanded, and Lupin probably would have agreed, they had stood there, not looking at shelves, not asking for help with merchandise, not paying any attention to the shop itself at all. Which left the shop's proprietors as the most likely reason the trio had been there.

The problem was that Draco had no idea what sort of thing those five people could possibly be cooperating on.

He tried to figure out the common elements between the five apparent conspirators. Four Gryffindors and a Slytherin. One teacher, one ex-teacher, one student, and two graduates. So Hogwarts was a common factor, but without any consistency of age or situation to bind the five together. Had it been three other people Draco had recognized from Hogwarts, he probably wouldn't have thought twice about it. But when his own Head of House was conspiring with the disgusting Potter, something was dreadfully wrong. He simply had no idea what it was.

So the thing to do was to march into the Weasley shop, confront the owners and tell them he knew exactly what they were doing. Even if they eventually figured out that he was bluffing, they would be more likely to reveal something if he acted as though he already knew what was going on than if he were to ask politely.

So he put on his new robe from Madame Malkins', made sure his wand was within easy reach and could be swiftly drawn from the right side pocket, and stalked into Weasley Wizard Wheezes on Sunday morning - fortunately for him, the slowest part of the slowest business day of the week. He strode purposefully to the counter, where a girl stood behind the register. She was cheerfully smiling, and rather dim looking. "May I help you?" She asked in a bright, friendly tone that Draco found vacuous and repellent.

"No," he stated flatly. "I have business of a personal nature with Fred and George Weasley. They were supposed to be here." He stood looking down his nose at the counter girl in a conscious imitation of the posture his father used to intimidate the lowly.

"The owners are always here, Sir," the girl piped up brightly, not taking the proper measure of his stance at all. "Wait here a moment, please, and I'll..."

She was moving toward a door behind the counter. Draco decided to take control of the situation rather than being forced to wait for the Weasleys. "I'll find them," he barked, walking around the end of the counter and toward the door, intending to brush past the girl on his way. Instead, to his shock, she stepped directly in front of him. He walked directly into her and lost his balance, stepping backward to keep himself from falling.

"No, you won't," the girl told him cheerfully. "You will wait here a moment. Or, I'll heave your skinny bum out into the street. Which will it be?" She turned a beaming smile upon him as Draco stood there, outraged, effectively blocked from making progress toward the office.

The standoff lasted only a second or two before the office door flew open and the Weasley twins rushed out.

"Draco Malfoy!"

"What a surprise!"

"You've not been a regular customer yet -"

"Shame on you for that -"

"How are we going to grow bigger than Zonko's..."

"If the richest joker in wizard Britain doesn't patronize us?"

Draco stood there stolidly, face unreadable. "Office?" he suggested coldly.

"Oh, you bet."

"Right behind the counter."

"Nothing like an office for getting paperwork done."

"And no better place for one than immediately to hand."

"Wouldn't be without it."

Draco curled his lip contemptuously. "May we... please... go into your office to have our discussion?"

"Were we going to have a discussion?"

"I hadn't planned on that."

"You're lucky to have caught us in, Draco."

"You might have had to deal with Charlotte, here."

The counter girl grinned mockingly at Malfoy as he stood with lips pressed together, waiting for the torment to end and the twins to invite him into their sanctum.

"Well... we are here."

"And Charlotte can handle any customers we get."

"So why don't you come in to our office, Mister Malfoy?"

"We can have a discussion there."

Silently, Draco walked into the office and took a chair facing the wide double desk. The twins closed the door and walked solemnly to their seats behind the desk. They sat with their hands folded, staring seriously at their visitor.

"Is it a big order, then, Draco?"

"Anything small you could have picked up off the shelf."

"Or a special order?"

"We are developing some wickedly fun items that you could be the first to use."

Draco stared at the pair with his most intimidating glare. "I know what you're up to."

"We are in business."

"And we do intend to make a fortune at it."

"So having you come in off the street was a stroke of luck for us."

"We would like to sell you a truckload or two of our most expensive merchandise."

Draco sneered his most finely-honed sneer. It veritably radiated contempt. "Not that," he spat. "I'm not interested in your pathetic Wheezes. I'm talking about what you're up to. With Snape, and Lupin, and... Potter." He leaned back in his chair to relax and wait for them to beg for his silence.

"You do?"

"You know?"

"About Snape?"

"And Lupin?"

"And... Potter?"

"Please Draco. I'm begging you, now. Please. Tell us." Both twins leaned forward, elbows resting on the desktop, expectant looks on their faces.

Draco turned his nose up at them and sniffed haughtily. "You think you were so secret. But I have seen you plotting together. An unlikely alliance, isn't it? You thought no one would suspect. But you weren't quite as discreet as you thought you were."

The twins looked at one another and sat back in unison. A slight shrug from one and a slight nod from the other was the only visible communication between them.

"Draco, when you come to bluff someone, you have to have something. Some little item of information - even a hint or a guess or a clue - that suggests you know more than you really do."

"Otherwise, it's not even any fun. Part of the joy of a good bluff is trying to figure out how much the bluffer really knows."

"When the bluffer obviously knows nothing, there's nothing to work with."

"You can't hint around to get clues about what cards he's really holding."

"You can't mislead him with information that seems to go along with what he already has."

"Worst of all, you can't totally exaggerate the one thing he may actually be aware of in order to make it sound like some insanely big deal, when it's really only an insignificant side effect of the real scheme, whatever it is."

"In short, Mister Malfoy, your bluff wasn't very good. It wasn't fun, and it really wasn't worth our time."

"If there's nothing else...?"

Draco leaned forward, nostrils flaring. "Now wait a minute. Potter and you two... with Lupin? And Snape? That's sick. It's unnatural. Just having the three of them together with the two of you is damning enough. You can't possibly be up to anything you would want made public."

"And Draco Malfoy is going to 'go public' with... what?"

"What are you going to tell the 'public,' and who would possibly care?"

Thrusting out his chin in his best belligerent pose, Draco made a wild guess. "Dumbledore."

The twins looked at each other, smiled and nodded.

"Oooh, that's scary."

"The Headmaster is really going to be furious about this one."

"A teacher... wasting time in a joke shop."

"With a student."

"Who is on summer break."

"And an ex-teacher."

"Who's not even on the payroll any more."

"Maybe you can get Snape fired."

"Though I guess that even a teacher is allowed some free time."

"Especially between terms."

"He might even be on holiday."

"It is summer, after all."

Draco stood stiffly, eyes flashing. "Fine. Don't admit to what you're doing. You simply force me to find out for myself."

"Oh, don't be like that, Malfoy."

"Sit down, take the stick out of your bum."

"Are you really interested in what we're doing with the mysterious three?"

Draco stared suspiciously at the twins. Oddly, they seemed to be genuinely curious as to his attitude. With a start, Draco realized that this was exactly the opening he had been hoping to get when he came in here, bluffing. The twins were offering it to him of their own free will. He distrusted that immediately. "Yes. I am interested. Snape is my Head of House, my best teacher and... so I thought... a family friend. So... yes. Yes, I am interested."

"Well, then. We can give you a chance to earn your knowledge."

"We'll take you to a significant location, and let you inspect the site."

"But we won't explain it."

"Take your time to think about it. Go home, sleep on it, whatever."

"If you can tell us what it means, we'll give you another clue."

"If you can't, you get a choice."

"We can stop the game right there, no more clues, no more information."

"Or, you can do something to help us out."

"What you do to help us will be another clue."

"And if you can figure that one out, we'll give you another for free."

"If you can't, you get the same choice again."

"Stop the game, or help us out."

"And so on."

"Could be fun."

"And if you flunk out, you can always, as you say, find out for yourself."

Draco nodded cautiously. "Deal."

"Good. For the first clue, we'll have to apparate. Do you mind?"

Draco took offense at the implied insult to his courage. "No."

"Good. One of us will take you."

"The first location is our warehouse."

"It has some powerful warding on it."

"You're not wearing a... pacemaker or anything, are you?"

Draco wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Certainly not."

"Good. 'Cause the wards on this place are really serious anti-magic shields."

"No one is tracking you, right? Nobody keeping tabs on you from a remote location?"

Draco raised one eyebrow. "I'm on my own."

"Good. 'Cause once we take you in to the warehouse, any tracer on you is going to go out like a lumos spell getting noxed."

"Come on, we'll go from here. I'll take you."

Draco tried to look nonchalant, but realized that he was putting himself into the arms of an apparator who was not necessarily his friend... and who did not seem to be mentally all that stable. He shuddered as he approached the redhead, but managed to stop trembling by the time the Weasley put his arms around him. There was a sudden crack, and only one twin was left in the office.

Far to the north, Dumbledore's kissing children lost interest in their kiss and returned to search mode.


	9. Chapter 9

Once again, Many, Many Thanks to each of you who has taken your time and effort to post reviews of my work. I am learning a tremendous amount from each review - including those which identify those portions of the story that have proven enjoyable as well as those which point out the unsatisfying portions of my tale.

Speaking of which… I hope I haven't lost those of you who have taken exception to some elements of this work. I believe that there is sufficient entertainment included in the entire effort to keep all of you reading, and to make up for those aspects which may have proven unappealing .

But – if you find some element dissatisfying enough to make you decide not to check back for further chapters, could you post a quick comment outlining your views? I know - requesting a review of a story that you decided is not worth following is a lot to ask. But I'm seriously trying to improve by posting this story where it may garner comments from people with many different viewpoints.

The best part about participating in Fan Fiction is that, through your reviews, I feel as though I am taking part in a rich conversation regarding these characters we all enjoy, as well as the art and craft of writing.

Thank you.

Chapter 9

For Harry, Sunday was another grueling day of hard, frustrating work. There was more testing of his knowledge regarding the previous days' notes, which he failed miserably, since he had not had any time to review. There was more note taking, and he wrote more than he had ever written for any full day of classes, as Professor Sprout continually admonished him to write faster, since there was so much to cover in so little time. There was more carrying: of soil, of pots and of water, none of which could be levitated, due to the extreme sensitivity to magic of the plants that were to come into contact with the materials. There was sweeping up and throwing away of dead leaves and other fallen bits of vegetation, sweeping up and saving of spilled soil, and careful gathering, cataloging and preservation of ripe fruit and seeds. Harry was not trusted to handle this last job on his own, but was shown how to recognize the desired items, left to gather them from the appropriate plants, then instructed to bring them all carefully to the Professor, who would label and store them. As he completed his first gathering job, and proudly presented the fruits of his labors to Professor Sprout, she scolded him for harvesting three pods that were not yet ripe and spent quite some time pointing out the differences between the ripe and the unripe pods that he should have noticed in the first place. The delay put him behind schedule, and he was urged back to work by an exasperated Herbology professor.

Neville showed up sometime around mid-morning, and spent a lot of time wandering around the greenhouse, presumably collecting cuttings. He chatted easily with Professor Sprout, and Harry was annoyed to find that, even though they spoke very openly right in front of him, he could understand very little of their conversation.

Neville and Professor Sprout enjoyed their lunch in her office, while Harry was sent back to the castle to eat in the deserted dining hall. Remus joined him, so it wasn't quite as lonely as it could have been, but Harry was tired, and sleepy and sore, and kept losing the thread of his own conversation. He jerked himself back to awareness after losing his train of thought to a dreamy musing to find Remus staring at him with concern.

"Are you all right, Harry? I seem to have lost you there for a bit."

"Oh. Um. Yeah. Yeah, all right," Harry mumbled tiredly. "Just... hard day down at work. Haven't had time to go over my notes, so..." he shrugged, unable to form the words to explain any further.

"Do you feel up to going out, tonight? I get the impression that Severus would appreciate undertaking our search alone, for a change, if you'd rather rest."

Harry thought about missing a day of magic practice, and decided that learning more about his own abilities - especially regarding combat magic - was more important than reviewing his notes and getting some extra sleep. If there was some sort of reservoir of magical power that he could call on to overcome a powerful, experienced wizard like Voldemort, he needed to learn about it as quickly as he could. His very life may depend on it. There had been so many times that he had been surprised by attacks, during which he could have used more power, that he had nearly lost count of them. Voldemort leaping at him from the pool of unicorn blood on the ground of the forbidden forest. Professor Quirrel turning on him near the Mirror of Erised. Deep in the Chamber of Secrets. After the portkey transport, when Voldemort had said, 'kill the spare.'

"Harry. Harry, are you there?" The boy felt himself snap back to wakefulness, once again looking Remus directly in the eye.

"Yes. I'm sorry. Tired. I... could you do me a favor?"

"I hope so," Remus smiled with just enough mischief to warn Harry not to ask for too much.

"Rest of lunch. I'd like to nap. Could you wake me to go back to work? Then I'll be ready to go out tonight. Really.

Remus nodded his understanding and agreement. "Going up to your room?"

"No," Harry yawned. "Save time. Rest right here."

To the grownup's astonishment, Harry lay under the dining table. There was no time to argue with his decision. He was asleep before Remus could say a word. The werewolf sighed and counted to one hundred. Just before he completed his count, he heard the sound of a soft snore, and knew that it was time. He gently levitated Harry, who was so soundly asleep that he didn't stir when he was lifted from the ground. Moving carefully, so as not to disturb the boy, Remus carried him upstairs to bed.

When Remus woke him, Harry splashed water on his face and ran down the stairs, ignoring the safety admonishments from the Fat Lady. He rushed toward the greenhouses, not sure whether he was late or not, but feeling as though he had slept for hours. To his dismay, he saw Professor Sprout glaring out of the glass toward him. He put on a burst of speed to try to get back to work as quickly as possible, but as he approached, he could tell that the professor was not glaring at him at all. He turned to see a mature man with greying hair, wearing a neat, new robe and carrying a large, string-tied file folder under one arm. The man was walking out of the castle entrance and heading toward the Hogsmeade path. Harry let himself in to the greenhouse, only to see the professor turn away from the transparent wall with a snort. "Who was that?" Harry asked innocently.

"Goes by the name of Sepal," Professor Sprout said sourly. "Means to have my job."

Harry was nearly thoughtless enough to remind the professor that she had quit, leaving 'her job' up for grabs, but he bit his tongue before the words could escape. "What's next?" he asked instead.

Unfortunately for Harry's tired brain, the next job was pruning - an art and science that Professor Sprout took very seriously, indeed. Harry thought that he would have rather had something mindless to occupy his afternoon, like carrying dirt again, rather than having to watch as the professor snipped pieces from a variety of plants, explaining how and why she made each cut. His head was swimming within minutes, but he made notes, along with drawings to illustrate the principles he was being taught. Neville left in mid-afternoon, and Harry merely waved a vague goodbye to the boy, so caught up in his work was he. By the end of the day, Harry was truly exhausted, and wished he could lie down right where he was and sleep until the next morning. Instead, he knew, there would be more to do tonight, and - as Professor Sprout reminded him as he left - he would be back in the greenhouse at seven o'clock the next morning. With a groan, he trudged up the hill toward the castle, trying to figure out whether he had any clean clothes to wear that night.

--- --- ---

Family dinners at the Weasleys' home were always loud, chaotic affairs, but there was always plenty of laughter and love and good food to make them seem invigorating rather than tiresome. Mrs. Weasley had begun to complain of 'empty nest syndrome' once Bill and Charlie had moved away, but when Percy had taken an apartment, and the twins got their own home, she had put her foot down. "You will be here for Sunday dinner every chance you get," she had ordered the twins. "And if you must be absent, you will explain to me - to my satisfaction - your reasons. Then you will apologize, and make your best effort to join us for a weekday dinner before the next Sunday." Fred and George had laughed and joked about their mother's proclamation, but they knew better than to ignore it, or even take it lightly. They had been present for every Sunday dinner of the past year. This Sunday would be no exception. It was easy to let Charlotte lock up the shop. The business had taken in less than one hundred sickles for the entire day, and most of that had been due to a generous father's purchase of a fireworks display for his son's birthday party. The twins had left early, with no customers in the store, and no one even window shopping outside.

"Hey, Mom!" George shouted as he walked through the front door. He could hear his mother's distant-sounding 'Hello, George,' drifting out of the kitchen, in which the clanging of a magically driven masher indicated mashed potatoes on the menu for tonight.

"Where's Percy?" Fred called as he saw Ron and Ginny descending the stairs toward the dining room.

Molly's voice was stern as she answered. "He had to work. He works very hard. Now, not another word about that." Fred grimaced. His mother had always defended Percy, even when he was at his most insufferable. But the ban on making fun of his brother's absence had been issued, and Fred was not about to violate it.

As the Weasley clan gathered around the table for this Sunday's dinner, Arthur walked slowly in to the dining room, sighed and settled gingerly into his chair.

George pounced immediately. Never afraid to make fun of the paterfamilias, he asked, "What's wrong Dad? Did you have to go to work today? You look beat."

"Thank you, Son," Arthur replied wryly. "In a manner of speaking, I did have to go to work today. Albus Dumbledore needed to see me. He said it was urgent. I've been up to your old school."

Ron and Ginny both looked up sharply at the same time. "Did you see Harry, Dad?" Ron asked.

"No, I did not see Harry..." Arthur began, but was interrupted by his daughter.

"You could have taken me," Ginny pouted, looking highly offended at being left behind. "I would have liked very much to see Harry, and I'll bet he would have enjoyed a Sunday visit."

"Harry was at work, young lady," Arthur said with enough irritation that Ginny sank back in her chair, making herself small and looking worried. "In fact," Arthur informed them all, "Harry's job is a seven day per week, no holidays, no time off, dawn till dusk sort of employment. Plus, if I understood Dumbledore correctly, once the sun goes down, and Harry gets off his all-day day job, he goes to work on some other project with Professor Snape."

"Snape?" Ron wailed. "That's disgusting."

"Oh?" Arthur replied, pinning his youngest son with a piercing stare. "I daresay the boy will have quite a bit of extra credit to apply to his Herbology and Potions efforts for next year. I can think of some Hogwarts students that could use such credit."

Ron gulped and stared wide-eyed at his father. The normally easygoing Arthur Weasley seemed very annoyed this evening, and on the edge of handing out punishments. Ron chose to remain silent, hoping someone else would take his father's attention off of him.

"What did Dumbledore want?" Fred asked, and as Arthur turned to answer, Ron mouthed a silent 'Thank you.' At the same time, Molly Weasley corrected her older son sharply.

"Professor Dumbledore, Fred. Show respect."

"Sorry, Mom,"

"It's all about the case of the Missing Malfoys," Arthur began, spooning food onto his plate and preparing to tell the story. "It seems as though Narcissa and Draco Malfoy have left their home. There's little mystery there, since they are set to lose the property in the upcoming legal proceeding against Lucius. They will need to find someplace else to live soon, so why not now? That makes sense, and in fact, no one has argued that part of the situation. What's odd is that neither Narcissa nor Draco show up when locator spells are cast to find them."

"Why would anyone cast locator spells on those two?" Fred wondered.

"I can think of several reasons why the aurors might," Arthur admitted. "Narcissa might be called as a witness in her husband's trial, Draco might appropriate property that is legally Lucius' and thereby subject to seizure in the event of his father's conviction... but it's not the aurors who are casting the spells. It's Albus Dumbledore."

The children watched their father in fascination. Molly kept her eyes on her food, lips pressed tightly together. Fred, realizing that another prompt was called for to keep the story going, modified his earlier question. "Alright, why would Du... Professor Dumbledore cast a locator spell on those two?"

"Two things," Arthur explained, holding fingers up to count off the points. "First, unlike the entire Order - and the whole Ministry - and everyone who knows anything about the Malfoys, for that matter, Dumbledore believes that neither Narcissa nor Draco has left the country. Second, Albus is convinced that Draco is planning to take Lucius' place as You-Know-Who's right hand man."

The twins met each other's eyes, both wearing comical expressions of disbelief. "Draco?" they exclaimed in unison.

"Dad," George said with his hand over his heart to emphasize his sincerity, "Lucius Malfoy frightens me, and I don't care who knows it. The man is evil, and underhanded, and just plain mean, and sneaky..."

"And if we can say he's sneaky, that's saying something," Fred butted in.

"...Not to mention that he's a powerful wizard, and up to his eyeballs in nasty doings with Vo... uh... You-Know-Who. Lucius is bad. But Draco?"

"He's a lamb."

"He's a pup."

"He's the patron saint of the idle rich nobodies."

"He's not his father." The twins sat back with identical short, sharp nods to indicate that their point had been made.

"I maintained something of the sort myself," Arthur said with a shrug. "Albus overruled me. So, since our first conversation on the subject, the entire Order has been - supposedly - searching the country night and day for the missing Malfoys. However, since it is most likely that those people are in Australia, or Canada, or somewhere else in the world completely apart from the Commonwealth, we have had no success. Until today."

The twins met each other's eyes quickly, then just as quickly turned back to their father. "What happened?"

"Albus set an automatic detector to search for Draco. Today, it seemed to indicate that he was present somewhere near London. Then, suddenly, it lost the signal. Now, what do you think might have caused such a thing?"

"Detector malfunction," George suggested.

"Or Draco apparated into the country - or took the Knight Bus or something - and then went into someplace with anti-spying wards," Fred added.

"And what sort of place do you think Albus suspects has that kind of anti-spying capability?"

"Umm... Can't imagine."

"Ahhh... No idea," the twins mumbled nearly incoherently.

"He's Albus Dumbledore, boys. Doesn't that suggest anything?" Fred and George squirmed uncomfortably in their seats, until their father said, "He believes that Draco was apparated out of hiding by a senior Deatheater, and then he disappeared into Vol... uh... You-Know-Who's headquarters."

"He would, the daft git," Ron snarled angrily.

Arthur rounded on the boy, glaring. "You're calling your Headmaster a daft git?" he demanded.

Ron flushed scarlet. "No. No. I meant Draco. Draco would go to... to... You-Know-Who. To his headquarters. Wouldn't he?"

"Really?" Arthur said, looking around the table at his gathered family. "No, I don't think so. Draco Malfoy is not the problem. The active, adult Death Eaters are. Convicting Lucius won't break the organization. Rather, it will give them one more martyr. In fact, if they are going to recruit new members, the treatment of Lucius Malfoy - tried under centuries-old treason laws that put his widow and son out of their home - will be an effective rallying point. Actually, I believe that if we were to be searching for anyone, we should search for old Vo... You-Know-Who, and once we find him, hit him with everything we've got. His followers would be disorganized after that, and they would be fairly easy to round up if they tried to continue to commit crimes. And if they simply quit...? There's more than one way to win a victory. I'd be happy to eliminate the big guy and let the rest of the bunch just give up and do something else with their lives. Could you pass those potatoes, George?"

When the dinner was finished, the twins left immediately, citing work to do at their warehouse. "See, Mom," Fred taunted. "It's not just Percy who works a lot."

"Yes, Fred," she countered sweetly. "But when he's done, it's not a mere pile of jokes and foolery that he's accomplished."

"Matter of opinion," George mused, looking the opposite direction as though commenting on some totally different conversation. He turned to find his mother glaring steadfastly at him. "Your opinion being the one that counts the most," he added, leaving Molly Weasley to shake her head in exasperation with her mischievous sons.

"Ahh, be off with the both of you," she said, shooing them away as if they had been chickens. "If you can make a living out of that foolishness you call a business, more power to you. It just shows how little people value their own hard-earned money."

"Love you, too, Mom," The twins called in unison as they walked away from the house, planning to apparate from beyond the yard to reduce the impact of the loud report of their magical transportation.

Fred and George re-appeared a few feet outside of their warehouse's front door. They had prepared several places within the building to which they could apparate directly, but there was still a rush of pride for both of them when they saw the extent of their real working area from outside. The shop was fun, and it served as the most common point at which customers traded their galleons for Weasley merchandise. But here was the place where the tricks and jokes were all developed. Here was the testing area - the proving grounds for all the Weasley's new products. And, of course, here was where the bulk of their actual inventory was stored. They walked proudly to the entrance and cast the spells to unlock the front door.

"Do you think he really could go to Voldemort's headquarters?" Fred asked as the twins began casting lumos spells to light up the interior of the building.

"Who, Draco? Nah," George scoffed. "If he ever did, he'd probably wet himself."

"No, I'm serious. I don't think he's the old man's top dog like his father was. I just mean, could he get in? As an honorary visitor? On a family pass? Hell, I don't know how What's-His-Face runs his appointment book. But Lucius' son? Wouldn't Voldy want the pup to come check out the business his father had been in?"

"From what we've heard, the old bastard is so paranoid, he'd probably be as afraid of Draco as Draco would be of him. I don't imagine someone that fearful being particularly welcoming."

"How did the little detective do on his visit here, today?"

George laughed out loud. "He got all huffy at first. Seems he figured out that this was our warehouse straight away. Maybe the signs gave us away. Then again, we told him where I was taking him before we apparated. It didn't take much brain power to determine that we were actually where we'd said we'd be. Beyond that, he walked around for a while like a first year playing Sherlock Holmes. Then he tried to get me to give him clues, then he got all pouty and whined that we were having him on."

"And?"

"I told him. 'Why would we bother? We're professional jokers. Having you on would be so obvious, it wouldn't be funny.' So he agreed to go home and think about what he had seen, come back some other time and make his guess."

"Which will be miles off."

"Couldn't be anything but. He was totally baffled by the whole experience."

"So he'll owe us a favor."

"Or stop playing altogether. Or not even try to guess at all, which is my bet."

"But if he could get into Voldy's inner sanctum..."

"Firebomb?"

"More like... Extensible Ear."

"Crafty."

"Sublime. It's a gift."

A loud bang announced the arrival of Remus Lupin, with Harry Potter wrapped in his arms.

"Where's Snape?" George called.

"The professor is bringing our guest of honor," Remus explained.

"Oh, yes," George said, wiggling his eyebrows. "Guest of honor. There's some work ahead for you tonight, Harry."

"Right," Harry replied dully. "Good."

Without waiting for Snape to arrive with the mysterious guest, the four got straight to work, putting Harry through a number of previously planned paces. The twins thought they had a winner with some of the items from their 'Haunted House' collection of gags. The centerpiece of the 'Haunted House' set was known as the Monster Box. When the Monster Box was set off (out of view of the unsuspecting Harry) huge hallucinatory monsters were released. They were realistic looking, realistic sounding - and, in the case of the ogre, realistic smelling. But Harry's wild magic was only unleashed when he was either taken completely by surprise or when he was truly frightened. The first monster from the Monster Box elicited a gratifying response of a wandlessly cast magic shield. But once Harry caught on to the trick - that is, after the first monster - his magic was limited to those spells he had learned to cast at Hogwarts. The twins were also bitterly disappointed at the poor response their Whiz-Bang Frighteners received. Normally one of the most startling pranks offered by the Weasley company, the Whiz-Bangs could drift silently and nearly invisibly to within a hand's breadth of the victim before going off with a lot of noise and an impressive light show. Later, George was heard to complain that, in different circumstances, the Whiz-Bangs would have been more effective, but at the time, Harry was simply too tired to be properly startled.

Three long, frustrating hours after the exercises had begun, the twins were ready to quit, Lupin was discouraged, and Harry was too tired to even voice his agreement with everyone else. The loud report of an arriving apparator shocked Harry back to wakefulness, but all he could concentrate on was how much he wished he could go back to his room and go to bed. He looked toward the place from which the sound had issued, and was unsurprised to see Snape striding purposefully into view from behind a stack of crates. Harry was completely surprised, however, to see who was following the potions professor. She was tall, pale and blonde, dressed, not in robes, but in a slinky black evening gown that reached from her shoulders to her ankles, while offering many tantalizing glimpses of quite a lot of the flesh in between. The shoulder straps were thin, the neckline low, and the sides of the skirt were slit from hem nearly to her waist. She walked proudly, with an elegant grace. She looked astoundingly beautiful to the exhausted boy she was approaching so deliberately. Harry was so busy staring at her cleavage that he did not recognize the woman until she was close enough to extend her hand to him. He took it in his own just as the shock of recognition hit him.

Professor Snape's voice shocked him further at the very same moment, making him jump. Harry had paid no attention to the man, and Snape was standing mere inches away from Harry's side. "Mister Potter, please meet your instructor for all aspects of public relations. She will be assisting you in making your appearance, your speech, and your public persona appropriate for a national champion and a world leader. I am sure you know of her, but I am pleased to present Ms. Narcissa Black. Ms. Black, Harry Potter."

Harry scowled in confusion. "Black?" he asked weakly, still holding on to the woman's hand.

Narcissa raised an eyebrow. "Now that you are finished shaking my hand in polite greeting, you may release it," she instructed carefully, as though speaking to a profoundly retarded individual.

"Oh... sorry," Harry apologized quickly, giving Narcissa's hand one more firm shake and letting go, already embarrassed. "But pardon me... Black?"

Snape glared, clearly displeased, but Narcissa glanced at him, giving him a look to discourage interruption. "Yes, Harry. I am using my maiden name once again. I will have to get used to that very soon, and I have begun the process already. I can see from this first meeting that you are very direct. We will have to work to turn that into an asset."

"Um... thank you," Harry said uncertainly. "But... I wasn't expecting..."

"You weren't expecting an image maker nor a vocal coach. You did not think you needed training to rise to the top of the highly competitive political arena. You believed that power was enough. It is not. You need to be aware of how you appear to others. In order to do so, you have to have some idea of what to look for and listen for. And once you have some idea of how you are being perceived by others, you have to learn to look for the subtle signals that others are sending you. In the world of politics, more is communicated by subtle nuance than by direct statement." She turned away from Harry for a moment. "Could you all give us a moment, please?" There was a general mumbling of assent, and the four men walked away, heading toward the office area. Narcissa turned back to Harry and studied him for a while, even as he was studying her, dazedly staring. "Harry? Harry. Ah, there you are," she said as he raised his eyes back to her face. "I need some information about you so I will know where to begin. First of all... Harry?" The boy blinked and dragged his gaze away from the curve of her breasts. "Have you ever had a girlfriend?"

Harry tried to concentrate. Hadn't he just had this conversation? No, that was with Remus. What had he said? Oh, yes. He had told the truth. Should he do that again? He felt he was becoming lost again. "Sorry, I haven't slept much in the past few days. Work all day, this all night. Pardon me, please. Um. Girlfriend. No. No, I haven't. Ever. Had one. Girlfriend, I mean."

"We will have to change that," Narcissa said simply, as though finding a girlfriend were the easiest thing in the world. "If you are starving, you can be distracted far too easily."

Fuzzily, forcing his words through his fatigue, Harry protested. "I wouldn't say I was starving."

"Oh," Narcissa purred, and twisted slightly, sending a ripple down through the entire length of her gown, showing off brief flashes of her thighs. Harry's pupils dilated, and his breathing accelerated sharply. "Yes. Distracted far, far too easily. You don't have to be a prude, Harry. But people expect their world leaders to be stable, sexually. That is why most prime ministers have been married. People accepted that as a sign of sexual stability."

"Oh. Uh... yes, Ma'm," Harry agreed, confused by the entire discussion.

"That means I expect you to be able to go for over a minute without staring at my tits," Narcissa said sharply.

"Oh! Uh... right." Harry fixed his gaze deliberately on a point directly between her eyebrows and concentrated on keeping it there.

Narcissa shook her head in disappointment. "They are really working you hard, aren't they? Harry, you need your wits about you if you are going to be able to learn anything I have to teach. You will have to concentrate, and - not just remember - but understand why we do the things we do. If you are going to lead people, you have to appeal to their very deepest drives, their most basic motivations. A perfect example: why do so many successful politicians have clean, straight teeth?" Harry stared at her, baffled by the sudden change of subject. Teeth? Did he have something stuck in his own? He ran his tongue over his incisors, finding nothing out of the ordinary. He shook his head cluelessly. Narcissa pursed her lips in disapproval and answered her own question. "Because people trust someone with clean, straight teeth. A substantial majority see that feature as a sign of good health, a balanced mind and acceptable personal hygiene. They don't think those things out, they feel them deep in their guts. That is a very simple example, but the principle applies to everything from speech to dress. You need quite a lot of work to make you into world-leader material, young man. I intend to help you accomplish a lot of that work. But we can't do it while you are so tired that you are stupid. Come on, let's go talk to the rest of the boys. Let's see if we can't arrange for you to have a little time to get some sleep, shall we?"

Harry nodded happily. Sleep. It sounded so good.

--- --- ---

As Severus apparated Narcissa back home, he sarcastically commented, "Thank you so much for your generous suggestion this evening."

Narcissa gave him back an equal measure of ire. "You're so welcome. And I so appreciated your brilliantly efficient use of my time. I can't imagine what you thought I would be able to accomplish with a subject who has been the victim of sleep deprivation."

"There is a perfectly valid reason that we are putting Mister Potter through that particular hardship. He has to be able to reach the vast reservoirs of power that have, to date, only been available to him while he is under duress."

"So you 'duress' him to the point he can't speak coherently, then expect me to teach him polite conversation?" Narcissa flicked her wand at the ceiling, casting a lumos spell to light the room, then suddenly turned and extended her wand toward the doorway that led to the bedrooms. She was speaking the initial words of her first curse when she realized who was standing there. "Draco? I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow." Slowly, she relaxed and straightened, lowering her wand.

"Hello, Mother. Welcome to our home, Professor Snape."

"Thank you," Snape said coldly, looking down his substantial nose at the boy. "How was England?"

"Sir?"

"England. Little country on an island. Place where you were born and raised. I am sure you are familiar with it. You were there this weekend."

Draco saw his mother's face set like stone and knew that he could no longer bluff. With a show of humble contrition, he said, "It was dull, Sir."

"Was it? If your country visit was dull for you, it was hardly dull for anyone else. When Albus Dumbledore detected your presence, he immediately called all of his friends. And they did not keep the secret to themselves. Arthur Weasley even told his idiot twin sons of your visit."

Draco swiftly searched for a strategy that could save him. Desperately, he turned to the offensive. "Speaking of this weekend - and of the idiot twins, Professor... what were you plotting so seriously with them, and the werewolf, and Harry Potter?"

Snape smiled with wicked glee. "You will find out, young Mister Black, when Harry Potter comes to your home to take speech lessons from your mother. Speaking of whom... I believe she wants a word with you in private. Please pardon me. Good evening, Narcissa. He took two steps backward, and with a mighty bang, was gone.

--- --- ---

Remus returned Harry to the Hogsmeade path just outside of the Hogwarts grounds, and as expected, he made no mention of the evening's exercises. That made perfect sense to Harry. He could no longer expect to be able to tell when his conversations might be overheard. But what was surprising - and irritating - was that Remus chose to talk about Herbology.

"Did you get to the preparation for stoatradish root, yet?" he asked cheerfully. "I seem to recall that one as having a very tricky process involved."

"I don't know," Harry replied blearily. "I don't think so."

"That's odd... I would have thought you would have reached that part of the greenhouse by now. What did you go over today?"

Harry tried, but couldn't remember any part of the day's work. Neville had shown up... had he gotten his cuttings? Harry hadn't seen him do so. There was carrying. There was always something to carry, Harry thought resentfully. There was sweeping up, and putting away, and... what? Something about seeds? "I can't remember," he admitted.

"That won't go over well tomorrow," Remus said sympathetically. "Hey, why don't we go over your notes? We'll zip up to the common room and pull out what you've written. It'll be like old school days for me - and you're going to need to remember what you've been told if you're going in to Professor Sprout's last week here."

Harry rubbed his eyes and stared at the castle, so far away, and all uphill. Seconds ago, he had merely been hoping to be able to reach the entrance before collapsing, and now Remus wanted to review notes? "I don't think I can. I'm beat."

"And haven't you felt that way all through finals every term? I know I always did. Listen, Harry, Pomona will be furious if you go back to work tomorrow unable to remember anything you did today. And you really do want to be able to serve out the next six weeks in your job without creating a massive disaster, don't you?"

Harry could visualize the disaster all too easily. Then he recalled that the disaster he was visualizing was the one he and Neville had planned together. So... he DID want to create a massive disaster. And have Neville save the day. Did Remus know about that? No. Should he be informed? It seemed like a bad idea. So Harry couldn't reassure the man that disaster was really the order of the day, and that it was really all right, and there was a plan for recovering from the disaster. That was too bad. Remus was obviously worried, and only meant to make Harry's life a little easier by helping him go over his notes. But Harry was so tired he could barely think. So going over notes right then and there was a bad idea. Then again, going back to work tomorrow as totally clueless as he was tonight would make his plot with Neville too obvious. If he looked as though he were deliberately acting more stupid than he was, it would begin to appear as if he were planning a disaster. Or that he didn't care whether or not a disaster occurred. And that would only make Professor Sprout angrier than she already was, and that would be uncomfortable for everyone. Harry looked up at the castle again. Thankfully, he saw that it was several steps closer than the last time he had looked. He must have been moving toward it while he tried to think. He concentrated on his legs. Yes. They were moving. If he kept walking, he would certainly reach the castle before long. And then bed. Wonderful, comfortable bed. But no. Remus wanted to review notes. And Harry had just decided that was a good idea. Right. He would do it. "Um... Remus? Let's do that. The notes. Let's review."

"Good lad," Lupin praised with hearty enthusiasm. "Glad you spoke up. I thought I had lost you, there for a moment." He looked pityingly at the boy trudging next to him. 'I hope this works, Severus,' he thought. 'I don't know how much longer I can do this to the boy.'

Once in the comfort of the common room, Remus' energy and encouragement helped Harry focus on the work he had to do. He ran up the stairs, and pelted back down, carrying his notes, proud that he had resisted the temptation to fall onto his bed and surrender to sleep. He spread his notes out over the same table at which the two of them had shared dinner the previous night, and selected the same chair he had used then, grateful for its upright firmness. A softer chair would have let him fall asleep far too easily. He triumphantly stabbed his finger down on one of his illustrations as the drawing triggered the memory of that afternoon's labors in the greenhouse. "Pruning!" he declared confidently. "All afternoon. Pruning. And we did seeds in the morning."

"Excellent," Remus encouraged, reaching out to cover part of the writing with his hand. "And how do you prune the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

"You begin in early to mid- summer, when the leaves have changed from dull green to their signature color," Harry said, surprised and pleased at how much he could remember if he simply got started properly. He described pruning several specific plants, and some general guidelines for pruning any plants, then moved on to the methods of telling when certain seed pods had become mature and ready to be harvested. To his amazement, Harry was really enjoying himself. He was remembering a lot on his own, and recalling more when given a prompt from his notes by Remus.

The session continued until Lupin pronounced himself too tired to continue it. By that time, it was quite late, and Harry had less than two hours before he would have to wake up for work.

"I'll come in and make sure you're awake," Remus assured the boy. "See you in the morning."

"It is the morning," Harry said worriedly, and went up to bed.

--- --- ---

Two hours later, Harry awoke under the vigorous shaking being administered by Remus Lupin. "Hhrmphm?" he inquired, puzzled by the fact that the man did not seem to understand his question in the least. "Hrumrumpmphm," he tried again, only to face an equally uncomprehending expression on Remus.

"Do you want a shower, or are you going to throw on robes and run down direct?" Remus seemed to think the question was urgent. Harry could make no sense of it. Shower? He took baths. He could easily imagine a deep, hot bath, with aromatic bubbles at the surface, and soothing salts dissolved throughout. He was buoyant, floating, then flying, surrounded by a perfect cube of hot bathwater, flying across the countryside to the quiddich pitch, where the World Cup was to be decided. It was the current World Champion team against him. Voldemort and Fudge as beaters, each with a huge bag of bludgers slung over their brooms. Dumbledore was playing keeper, riding a broomstick with twigs so broad they covered all of the goals. There would be no way to score through that defense unless he knocked the headmaster's broom to pieces. His own team were in the stands, cheering him on, but unable to help. The Weasleys, who really would have been a great advantage against the World Champion side, were waving banners next to Snape and Narcissa Malfoy. Remus had a broom, but a dementor referee was disqualifying him from play. Harry knew his only hope was to find the snitch before the other team could score. And flying right next to him, keeping his every move in sight, was Rita Skeeter, who was playing seeker for the opposing team. His bath water began to evaporate, and he realized that he would be flying naked in front of the crowded stands...

"Harry! Get out of bed!" Remus looked worried, and shook him repeatedly.

"Sure. Just... no showers," Harry insisted. But Remus would not relent from his calling and shaking until Harry was standing on his own two feet. "Pruning the Scarlet Pimpernell," Harry recited from memory. "Begin in early to mid summer when the signature color is on the leaves... See, Remus? Our review worked. I'll be able to answer her questions, now." Harry grinned absently into empty space, and Remus pushed robes into his hands.

"Dress," Lupin commanded. "You'll be late otherwise."

"Dress?" Harry said out loud, unaware he was actually speaking. "I don't wear them."

"Here. Put this on," Remus said firmly, pressing the fabric of a robe into Harry's hands. "Now."

Remus escorted Harry down to the greenhouses that morning, at least in part to make sure the boy did not collapse on his way. 'This will have to be it,' he resolved. 'If Harry doesn't respond by tonight, I'm letting him sleep. There's no point in driving the lad insane just to see if we can force him to cast magic that we know he is capable of in the correct circumstances.'

--- --- ---

Harry presented himself for work that morning wearing a silly grin and carrying himself with pride. "I reviewed my notes with Mister Lupin last night," he boasted. "I'm ready for our review."

"That would indeed be marvellous," Professor Sprout said, "if we were in fact going to review. As it is, I have no time. Today, we are going to move on to the plants that need to have their special atmospheric conditions created for them. The most obvious cases are the jungle plants that require us to provide a humid, warm, and remarkably constant environment in order that they may thrive. I hope you are ready..."

But neither of them were ready for what happened next. The greenhouse door banged open, admitting Headmaster Dumbledore and a grey-haired man who swiftly closed the door behind them to prevent the ever-opportunistic charlies from creeping outside.

"Ah. Pomona. I am glad you are here," Dumbledore murmured. "I have brought an... ahhh... applicant. Along for a preview of our... mmmm... facilities. Aaron Sepal, I am pleased to present our own outstanding Professor Pomona Sprout. Professor, this is herbology specialist Aaron Sepal."

Professor Sprout nodded, her skepticism clear on her face.

"Oh, yes, and here is our summer's... hrmmm... student... ahh... assistant. Mister Sepal, please say hello to Harry Potter."

Sepal extended his hand. Harry looked at it for a moment before realizing with a start that he was being offered a handshake. He reached out and pumped the man's hand over-vigorously, then belatedly said, "Hello."

"Harry?" Dumbledore inquired gently. "Is there anything wrong?"

"Tired," Harry confided. "Have to work all night with Professor Snape. Searching for... Missing Persons. Strict orders from the Headmaster." He nodded as though his explanation were perfectly understandable, and covered everything.

"Is he drunk?" Aaron Sepal asked quietly behind Dumbledore's ear.

"Tired," Harry insisted. "This is drunk." He waved his hand absently toward the visiting herbology expert, who promptly grabbed a table edge, turning greenish and looking seasick.

"Harry, what did you do?" Dumbledore demanded, quietly but insistently.

"About a fifth of gin," Harry said with a casual wave to dismiss the headmaster's concern. "You know, like the song. 'He buys a six-pack, and he buys a fifth of gin.' Would you like me to add the six-pack? I'd have to guess."

"Harry," Dumbledore's gaze was fixed intently on the boy's eyes. "Have you ever drunk a fifth of gin?"

"Nope," Harry shrugged. "I guess I guessed about that too... I guess."

Sepal collapsed across the table he had been holding, dislodging some pots in the process of falling across the work surface. He lay belly down on the table, with his feet still on the floor, groaning.

"I think you have overdone it," Dumbledore warned. "The man is clearly being poisoned. Can you reverse your spell?"

"Nope. One way trip," Harry said dismissively. "Too bad for him. He said I was drunk. Liar. I work here all day, then hunt Malfoys all night... what does he expect?"

"I will take him to Madame Pomfrey," Dumbledore declared, then stopped and listened as the visitor began to mumble.

"Good sweet blessed God in Heaven," Sepal said weepily. "Voldemort's going to kill me. S'pposed to get youth recruits. Can't even stay..." He convulsed as though trying to be ill, but since he had not actually drunk any of the alcohol Harry had created in his bloodstream, the attempt was fruitless.

"I'll have to hurry," Dumbledore said, levitating the man's body and rushing toward the door.

Professor Sprout was not about to let him get away so easily. "You listen here, Albus," she scolded, following the Headmaster step for step. "If you are deliberately trying to destroy the Herbology Department at Hogwarts, you are doing a fine job of it. First, you take away my good summer worker, then you try to keep the replacement from learning anything by fatiguing him half to death. I wondered why he was so slow, well no wonder, now! Hunting Malfoys indeed. Getting no sleep and trying to come to work where I expect him to be alert, why, he might as well be on drugs! And you bring a Deatheater into my greenhouse to try to replace me? I ought to keep him here until he does die, it would serve him right. And you!"

"Think of Harry, Pomona," Dumbledore said, calmly but firmly. "You don't want to let the boy commit murder, do you?"

The greenhouse door slammed, and Harry stared at it for a long, long time before lying down right where he was, on the floor between the workbenches, and falling asleep.

--- --- ---

Aaron Sepal, once touted at Britain's most promising botanical researcher, slowly regained consciousness in a brightly lit space. He thought the room in which he was recovering was curiously devoid of furnishing until he realized that he was staring at the ceiling. With an effort, he attempted to look around. It was difficult to move his eyes, almost impossible to move his head. But someone had noticed his attempts; someone dressed in extremely light-colored clothing, as Aaron could tell by the pattern of reflected light at the edge of his vision. He strained to keep his eyes open, and was rewarded by the sight of Albus Dumbledore leaning over him, a look of mild concern on his face. Dumbledore did not speak, but seemed to be waiting for Aaron to offer some comment. Aaron could think of many, but he chose one of the few that occurred to him that did not begin with a string of obscenities.

"What kind of madhouse are you running here? Your gardener cursed me!"

"Mmmm," the Headmaster hummed agreeably. "And you made a rather shocking statement when he did."

"Something shocking would have been exactly what was called for," Aaron responded huffily. "Whatever the lad did to me really hurt... although I don't recall saying anything at all."

"What he did to you was to render you intoxicated by creating a surfeit of alcohol in your bloodstream. It was, in a sense, the most effective 'drunk' anyone could ever achieve."

"Oh. Well, I must have given him quite a piece of my mind, then," Aaron said with a sigh of relief. "But you can't hold it against a man for venting anger when he's drunk - especially if your own employee cursed the drunkenness upon me."

"In this particular case," Dumbledore said sadly, "I am afraid I have to make an exception to that general rule. You see, as the alcohol began to take effect, you said, 'Voldemort is going to kill me.' You continued with a brief explanation of why that would be."

"The Dark Wizard frightens a lot of people. Now that the Ministry says he's back again, being afraid of... You-Know-Who... seems to me to be perfectly reasonable."

"Yes..." Dumbledore mused. "Especially if you fail to carry out his youth-recruitment program."

Aaron's eyes narrowed in anger. "Is that your clumsy attempt to avoid a lawsuit?" he demanded. "Because I am not going to forget that I was attacked by a Hogwarts employee who used a curse on me without provocation. I was trying to be reasonable. But if you are going to stoop to cheap threats and baseless accusations..." He stopped speaking as Dumbledore held up a tiny vial for his inspection.

"If the accusations are baseless, you will never have a better chance to prove it than while under the influence of veritaserum."

"That's illegal," Sepal said with assurance. "And improperly administered, it can be very dangerous. Not only that, but an improperly conducted interrogation of a subject under the influence of veritaserum can be interpreted incorrectly. When that happens, you do not get 'truth' from the so-called truth serum. You get garbage. And I have suffered enough garbage since arriving at this campus today. If you have accusations, go ahead. Call the Ministry. I want legal representation."

"If the Ministry were to be called, you would have it," Dumbledore said gently. "As it is, you have veritaserum. And, to your good fortune, you have me. I am highly experienced at administering both the serum itself and the interrogations that go along with it."

"I won't take it," Sepal snarled.

"Aaron." Dumbledore's voice was nearly a whisper. "You are in a medical facility. I could inject it directly into your veins." Sepal's eyes grew wide as he took in the implications of that. Playing with veritaserum could be dangerous, but injecting it could prove fatal. "Ah. Good. I see you understand the consequences. And what if you should expire during the interrogation? One might think that Hogwarts and her Headmaster would have quite a lot to explain, wouldn't you?" Sepal strained to turn his eyes far enough to see Dumbledore. Whatever he had expected from the famous wizard, it had certainly not been the casual discussion of the high likelihood of his own death. "Consider this," the Headmaster lectured unhurriedly. "Several minutes ago, you nearly died of alcohol poisoning. It would be a simple matter to return the alcohol to your bloodstream and tell the world that Aaron Sepal showed up at Hogwarts for a job interview so drunk that we could not act in time to save his life."

"So you keep me here..." Sepal struggled to pull his arms and legs away from where they lay on the mattress without success. "Bound to the bed. You force veritaserum into me, and you try to pretend that your experience in interrogation a generation ago will be sufficient to overcome the training that any serious dark wizard would get if he were to come here trying to insinuate himself into your institution."

"Yes, and no," Dumbledore corrected gently. "What I am actually counting on is my experience, the threat of your death, and the fact that my subject has already babbled rather uncontrollably during his alcohol delirium." The Headmaster made a lazy gesture with his wand and the contents of the vial rose obediently to hover in midair just above Aaron's face. "Open wide."

Aaron thought of his training, his practice in overcoming interrogation techniques, his hatred of the muggle-loving, mediocrity-embracing culture that had grown to take over the society of wizards. He quickly reviewed the many ways in which he could honestly refer to his political affiliations without saying anything illuminating. "Fine," he spat contemptuously. "I hope you know that, once you have learned that I am not what you think I am, that I am not going to forgive and forget this."

"Oh, yes, I am well aware of that," Dumbledore said, distracted by the delicate process of directing the serum into his patient's mouth. "In fact, one might be hard pressed to find a good reason for allowing you to survive this very session.

Sepal tried to spit the serum out as he heard that, but Dumbledore had already, effortlessly, locked his lips shut. Even though the herbologist refused to swallow the potion, the powerful magic of the veritaserum was already beginning its work. Aaron felt the comfortably agreeable attitude, characteristic of truth serum, settle over him. In his last moments of truly independent thought, he reviewed the statements that would certainly be necessary in the upcoming interrogation. First: He was loyal to the opposition party. There was no need to elaborate on that, and it would hardly be considered a liability at Hogwarts to support any candidate that ran against Fudge. Second: His intent in coming to Hogwarts was to obtain a job. He was a professional as well as a scholar, and he had gone as far as possible in the world of commercial botany. Third: He never intended to cause harm to any Hogwarts student; in fact, he intended to enrich their lives. Which was true. Any organization, movement or activity whose aim was the reform of current wizard society would enrich a Hogwarts student's life. He gave himself the long-ago imbedded auto-suggestion that made those three statements repeat in a cyclical litany. I support the opposition party. I came here to obtain a job. I mean no harm, and wish to enrich students' lives. Such a safety mechanism was designed to provide security against the most aggressive of interrogation techniques.

"Aaron Sepal," Dumbledore began, speaking slowly and extremely clearly. "When you were cursed this morning in the Hogwarts greenhouse, did you see the person who cast the spell upon you?"

Aaron's tried to think ahead, to anticipate where this line of questioning could lead, but it was too difficult. He had to answer, the serum demanded it. He swallowed, and felt the locking spell being lifted from his lips. "Yes."

"How did he present himself to you?"

This question was more open than most that were usually asked during a veritaserum interrogation. There was some freedom to answer in any of several different ways. Sepal chose to try to sound as insulting as possible. "He looked drunk."

"In what posture did he face you?"

The questions were strange enough that Sepal was able to delay answering for a moment. Why was the old man so concerned about his gardener? "Slouching," Aaron mumbled, unable to force sarcasm into his voice.

"Where was his wand?"

That question was specific, and limited enough to demand an immediate, precise answer. "In his pocket."

"Do you mean that he pointed his wand at you through the fabric of his robe?"

"No." Give no extra information, Aaron recited silently. Short answers are the best.

"Was he touching his wand?"

"I don't know." Admit your ignorance, Aaron reminded himself. The boy's wand could have been resting on bare skin if there had been a hole on the inside surface of the pocket. There was no way Sepal could have known in what condition the boy's robes were. Admitting ignorance frustrates your interrogators and makes them waste time.

"Were either of his hands touching his wand when he cast the curse at you?"

"No." Still the gardener questions continued. Why didn't the Headmaster simply fire the boy and be done with it?

"What do you think I should do with you?"

"Hire me."

"To best serve my own best interests, what should I do with you?"

"Hire me."

"Please explain your last answer."

Aaron felt as though a clamp had been removed from his brain. Not only had the last statement not been a question, it had included a demand for him to expound upon a very open-ended subject. The herbologist knew that he had to be cautious - if he were to begin to babble, he may give away many things he would rather not divulge. He concentrated on organizing his thoughts. "You have lost the services of Pomona Sprout. You have no idea how good she is. The company for which I am currently acting in the capacity of consultant is in a bidding war with at least two others in an attempt to hire her as a permanent, full-time botanist. You need a replacement for her who is capable, and - more importantly - willing to continue her work. Most, if not all, applicants in this country who are qualified to apply for the position of Herbology professor at Hogwarts will not work with Mandrake. The no-Mandrake clause is common in many commercial contracts with herbologists nationwide. And many, if not most, professional herbologists routinely kill Devil's Snare wherever it is encountered. At several of the largest magiceutical companies here and on the Continent, Devil's Snare is not only killed on sight, but the area surrounding the plant is razed, and in many cases, the soil itself sterilized to make sure the entire plant and all of its seeds are dead. Contrast this with the healthy specimens of Devil's Snare in the Hogwarts collection, and the Hogwarts classes in which children are taught to transplant Mandrake, and you will see how difficult it will be for you to recruit a professor who will be both able and willing to continue Professor Sprout's work. I am the one qualified herbologist that can do what you need to have done. Also, this is not a commercial training center; it is a school. You need someone who understands academic requirements and who can advise those students who wish to continue their education beyond seventh year. I have done serious - and successful - academic research. I am familiar with the staffs of universities in fourteen different countries. And, of the seven papers on Herbology published last year in the Thistle Tube, I am the author of four, and co-author of one more. With four exceptions, I am the only Herbologist in the British Isles doing serious academic research. And the four individuals I have mentioned are so specialized that their work produces a paper per year at most. None of them have the general knowledge - nor the particular desire - to teach adolescents about plants. I do. I have been a successful tutor - you have my references. I have been a successful student teacher. Again, references are in your possession. I have been a successful professors' assistant, a highly-commended museum docent, and my appearances as the Demystifying Man on Garden Chat were the most successful guest-spots the programme has ever enjoyed. I can teach, I can explain things clearly to the non-expert, I can publish articles to be read by the professional wizard, I am not afraid to handle the dangerous plants in your collection, I know how to keep students safe while they learn about those specimens, I am a tireless worker, and a superb organizer. Perhaps most importantly, you are already suspicious of me. I will never be able to take you by surprise."

"Excellent," Dumbledore praised quietly. "That is a very good answer, Mister Sepal. Now, with the same enthusiasm and volubility, tell me about Voldemort."

When Dumbledore unlocked the hospital room and emerged, he faced a seething Madame Pomfrey. Arms crossed, her foot tapping in impatience, she demanded, "Well? Did you kill him?"

Dumbledore sighed, and looked sorrowfully into the mediwitch's eyes. "No, Poppy, I did not. You did not save the man in vain, he remains fully recovered from his alcohol poisoning, and I believe that, within a few hours, he will be recovered from his experience with veritaserum, as well."

"But he is still bound."

"I believed that was the safest course, for you and everyone concerned. He fears that Voldemort may kill him, and worries that the death he would suffer in that circumstance would be unduly painful. I would not want to have gone to such lengths to preserve his life, only to lose him to suicide."

Madame Pomfrey stared at the Headmaster with suspicion. "What are you playing at, Albus?"

"Oh, there is far too much work to be done to allow me to play," he replied, eyes twinkling. "However, one job at least may have been put to rest. I believe I may have found our new Herbology professor.

Ignoring Madame Pomfrey's look of angry disbelief, the Headmaster swept away, through the hospital wing and into the hallway beyond, his long hair and robes swirling behind him.

--- --- ---

Severus Snape pursed his lips and tensed his shoulders as the door to his Potions classroom was pulled open. He straightened from the workbench at which he had been grinding noxious weaselblossom pollen and faced the intruder. "Good morning, Headmaster. It is so good to see you. Tell me; Do you ever knock?"

"Hmmm? Oh... gracious, no. Not during summer, especially. Perhaps I should take it up. People seem to appreciate it. But, as it is... ahh... where was I? Oh, yes. The Potter Project proceeds apace. Your assistance has been greatly appreciated, and I daresay it will continue to be so."

Snape stared blankly at the Headmaster, genuinely confused. Was Dumbledore trying to tell him that he was aware of the secret magical tests and practices Snape had been putting Harry through? It certainly didn't seem so. Then, what could the Potter Project be? Knowing he could always count on his signature sarcasm, he sneered, "Are you trying to make the boy more irritating than he already is? I acknowledge the power of your magic, but it would take a miracle to increase such a nearly infinite quantity as the amount of irritation Potter can engender in the reasonable."

Dumbledore smiled tolerantly. Snape's jibe had been rather strained, but that was to be expected. The Potions professor had been put through quite a lot over the past few days. "You should be glad of this then," the Headmaster said with a gentle chuckle. "The Malfoy hunts will be curtailed. No more roaming the country, searching for the Bride of Lucius and their son."

"Why," Snape asked suspiciously. "And what does that have to do with Potter?"

"Oh... well, as for the boy, you won't have to be dragging him around after you at all hours of the night. That should decrease his irritant value quite a bit. And as for why... I detected young Draco Malfoy in England. The detector very suddenly lost contact with the boy."

"As if he had been apparated away from the point at which you detected him," Snape prompted.

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "I am afraid that if Draco had been apparated, he would have shown up once again on the detector, once he had reappeared at his new location. No, I believe the only explanation for his sudden disappearance is that he entered the headquarters of Voldemort."

"The only explanation?" Snape scoffed.

"The only one that fits the evidence, and takes into account the rather... ahmm... powerful detectors I have set to watch for the appearance of either of the Malfoys. It would take equally powerful wards to protect those subjects from being detected. The only warding of that strength is that used by the Dark Lord."

Snape, who was perfectly aware that the warding on the Weasley twins' warehouse had protected Narcissa from being detected, struggled to keep his face blank, and to make no protest against the Headmaster's specious claims. He could easily see how an abandonment of the Malfoy hunt would cause him serious inconvenience, however, so instead, he asked, "Now that Draco is presumed to be within the sanctum of your enemy, wouldn't it make sense to have us search harder now than ever before? We had no clue as to where to begin before your detector gave us a suggestion as to a possible starting point. Now we know at least where Draco was before he disappeared. Shouldn't we surround the place and remain vigilant?"

"We would surely be wasting our time," Dumbledore said with a mournful expression. Snape felt like punching him for not realizing that the previous Malfoy hunt had been a waste of time as well, but he maintained his calm demeanor. "Now that Voldemort has the heir of his most trusted servant with him, he will be able to accomplish whatever it was that he had planned for him - whatever it was that motivated Draco to run from his ancestral home in the first place. I fear we shall simply have to watch him closely when he returns to school next term. He may have been put up to some great villainy by Tom Riddle."

Snape was still concerned about what the Headmaster had said earlier. "If Mister Potter has not found the Malfoys you seek, how is it you can say the Potter Project is going well?"

"Ah. Severus," Dumbledore said, his eyes focused far away. "I said that it was about time to remove the restraints from Harry, to take the safety mechanisms off, to allow the... chain reaction to build. The restraints to which I referred were the magical and psychological restraints that have been kept firmly in place by the very blood magic that protected him while he lived with his muggle relatives. And we have begun the process of freeing the tremendous power Harry holds deep within himself, by keeping the boy here at Hogwarts this summer instead of in the muggle town of Little Whinging; and by allowing him to associate with wizards and witches rather than his vehemently anti-magic relatives. Especially important was his association with you and Mister Lupin. Both of you seem to... inspire the boy to strive to reach his potential. The results have been phenomenal. Do you recall the conflict Harry had with four assailants, just after he began his summer employment with us?"

"Did you arrange for that attack to take place?" Snape demanded.

"No, of course not, Severus. But I did take great interest in how Harry chose to fight back against his attackers. He cast multiple spells at once, he cast spells I did not recognize, and... I thought... he cast spells without using his wand."

"Nonsense," Severus snorted. "He had his wand when Lupin and I arrived."

"Yes. But today, in the greenhouse, he performed wandless magic once again. An applicant for the Herbology professorship insulted the boy. Harry waved his hand - his... bare... hand - at the man, and thereby transfigured enough of that adult's blood into alcohol that the man nearly died of poisoning before Madame Pomfrey could save him." Dumbledore seemed lost in thought, then with a start, added, "Which she did, of course."

"It seems as though some action is called for," Snape sneered, as his mind raced. "I could contact the Committee for the Removal of Dangerous Creatures, if you would like."

Dumbledore's smile was that of an adult trying to encourage a child to develop his sense of humor. "You are correct in one respect. Harry is a dangerous creature, although - as I have said previously - I believe it will be Voldemort who removes the boy from this world."

Snape surprised the Headmaster with his next question. "Do you - still - really believe he can?"

"Severus, think of what you are suggesting," Albus admonished. "The Dark Lord has been crippled, sick and weak for decades - and has still possessed enough magical power to hold the entire cadre of Death Eaters in thrall. When he was at his full power, he was able to challenge me! I hardly believe that a more experienced, more practiced Voldemort can possibly be less dangerous."

"You used to be a good measure against which to compare powerful wizards. If Tom Riddle could survive an exchange of curses with you, he had to be considered one of the world's best. But from what you have just described Potter doing... Do you really think you could stand against him if it came to your magic against his?"

"I had better hope to all that is good and right in this world that I am able to do so," Albus said sincerely. "I believe in the prophesy that we unearthed below the Ministry of Magic. My interpretation of that prophesy is that Harry Potter and Tom Riddle will fight... and they will both die. If Voldemort kills Harry and lives, I will have to attack with Neville Longbottom. One of them will destroy the Dark Lord, I am certain of it. But if Harry kills Voldemort and lives... it will be up to me, for the good of the entire world, wizards and muggles alike, to destroy the Boy Who Lived. Power such as his cannot be allowed the freedom of the world without a counterforce as powerful as Voldemort himself to restrain it."

Snape stared into Dumbledore's eyes, deadly serious. "Hope aside, I don't think you are up to the task."

"Then I fear we face a reign of tyranny unrivaled in the history of the world," Dumbledore stated with absolute assurance. "God help us if I cannot deliver the coup de grace."

Snape turned away as though unconcerned. "So what do we do with our evenings now that we will no longer be searching for Narcissa and Draco?"

"Young Harry needs sleep," Dumbledore urged. "He may study a bit after work, but he needs to catch up on the rest we have been denying him."

"That means Lupin and I will be standing guard over Sleeping Beauty," Snape snarled. "I had presumed as much. My question involves the rest of the Order." Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, and Snape sighed with exasperation at how dense the man could be at times. "You have a resourceful group of people who have made a special effort to keep their schedules open over the next few days, at least. They have accepted the fact that they will be working on Order business. So if one effort is to be abandoned... why not use the assembled talents of the Order to take care of something more important?"

"More important, Severus?" Dumbledore asked with warning in his voice. "What could be more important than preventing Voldemort from being reunited with his servants?"

"Do you really believe, Headmaster, that after the debacle of last term, Cornelius Fudge will abandon his attempts to control this school? Do you think he has been sent whining away with his tail between his legs? This is a man who has stayed in power for years at the very top of the government structure. He does not fear you. What he does fear - what he is quite vulnerable to - is negative public opinion. It is imperative that we gather ammunition to use against the man himself... and his entire organization, if possible. In the best case, we could discredit his supporters, and anyone in government service who has voted in concordance with Fudge's desires."

"That is a rather... political... assignment for a group of... as Arthur Weasley described them... paladins," Dumbledore said dismissively.

"Arthur Weasley? The Ministry official? Kingsley Shacklebolt? Tonks? Me, for that matter. You have a very political group, Headmaster."

"And their assignment would be... what, Severus? Are we going to spy on the man? Attempt to obtain photographs of illicit activities?"

"The effort must begin with you," Snape insisted. "You must make public the disasters of last term. And while you are at it, remind everyone of Fudge's past mistakes."

"And while I am playing at propaganda?"

"Put everyone else to work making sure that Fudge cannot impose himself on us again next term. You must have thought of something along those lines. It's your job."

Dumbledore smiled, looking a bit embarrassed, like an adult who has been overheard by a child while using foul language. "My job. I suppose it is, at that, isn't it, Severus? I will consider your advice. And - despite my distaste for public appearance - I may well begin the process of publicizing the Ministry's recent missteps. An interview with a newspaper might be a good place to begin. Goodness knows those people are after me for some comment or other almost constantly. I haven't given an actual, full interview in... hmmm... longer than I would care to think. I believe I may have someone who might listen to me if I wished to say something. And the rest... Arthur... Kingsley... You may have something, Severus. If you think of some way in which you might assist the effort, please, let me know. I will do the same. I suppose I should let you get back to your work. Noxious weaselblossom, is it? Nasty stuff. Always made me sneeze. Well, then.... Good day." He walked out of the classroom lost in thought, idly closing the door behind him with a flick of his wand.

--- --- ---

It was mere minutes after the Headmaster left the Potions classroom that Remus came rushing in. "Severus," the werewolf hissed. "Today, in the greenhouses..."

"Harry Potter performed wandless magic in front of at least two witnesses, including Pomona Sprout and Albus Dumbledore," Snape recited with exasperation. "Yes, I know. That is old news, wolf. You will have to keep up with current events more closely."

"But what are we..."

"Harry is going to rest, at least for tonight, by specific order of the Headmaster," Severus said with a calming tone. For all of the werewolf's experience as one of the famous Hogwarts Marauders, Lupin seemed very ignorant of real, adult intrigue. In serious espionage, meetings often had to be missed, drops frequently failed to occur, communications were habitually cut. One dealt with the problem as best as possible and moved on. For this particular conspiracy, moving on would have to include the awareness that every word they exchanged might be overheard. But Lupin was distraught, so a concise review of relevant news was important. Then Snape would have to find the privacy to slap some sense into the nervous lycanthrope. "From this moment forward, the hunt for the missing Malfoys is over. We were apparently too late. Dumbledore feels certain that his quarry has rejoined the enemy, and is now under the protection of powerful wards."

"Then...." Remus hunched his shoulders and spread his hands in an attempt to prompt some suggestion of a plan from the recalcitrant potions master.

"Then perhaps Mister Potter may finally be free to spend his evenings visiting his friends, as he has so often suggested as we worked during recent nights."

Lupin nodded his understanding, then finally seemed to relax. "I doubt that he will be doing any visiting tonight. I just levitated him upstairs to his room. He fell asleep on the greenhouse floor, and was so thoroughly unconscious that he didn't stir once from the time I lifted him until I settled him into bed."

--- --- ---

When Harry reached the greenhouse the next day, thoroughly refreshed by his afternoon, evening, and full night of sleep, he found Professor Sprout standing over a pot with a pile of soil next to it. The Professor was so angry, she had not even begun to work with the materials in front of her, but stood, eyes focused on a point about six feet before her, her lips working soundlessly. As Harry entered, she tried to put on her mask of professional detachment. It lasted for about two seconds.

"I suppose you have heard?" she asked.

Harry felt he was in trouble already. He had no idea what the teacher could be talking about, but he had no desire to contradict her, either. She was obviously furious and Harry felt that anything he said would inevitably lead him into further trouble. He finally decided to take the chance of being honest. "Uh... no, M'am," he said, showing embarrassment at his own ignorance.

"Well!" Professor Sprout threw down the trowel she had been holding. It penetrated the entire pile of soil on the workbench and the sharp leading edge of its digging blade stuck hard into the wood of the benchtop. Harry was glad that the Professor had one less weapon in her hand. "You may not have to stay here all alone after next Tuesday. The Headmaster has decided..." she pursed her lips hard and took several tense breaths "...to hire Mister 'Voldemort - Will - Kill - Me' whom you met - and, I must say, dealt with so properly - yesterday."

"That incident is... a little hazy for me," Harry admitted.

"Well of course it is," Sprout fumed. "I knew the Headmaster had certain people out searching for the Malfoys. A total waste of time and effort, so far as I am concerned. But to have a child involved... and with you working here... and after you had been attacked on the very grounds of the school... I never imagined that you would be under that kind of strain. You were tired and sleepy and trying to learn a great deal about a discipline for which you have no particular aptitude. I am sorry, Mister Potter," she said, her expression softening momentarily. "I do not mean that as harshly as it sounds. You have made passing grades in each of my classes in which you were involved, but to place a student in charge of the entire Hogwarts collection presupposes that the student has made a greater achievement - and has expressed a still greater potential - than mere passing grades indicate." As she returned to the main thrust of her argument, her expression recovered its full fury. "And then to exhaust you with a stupid and fruitless search night after night... I cannot forgive the Headmaster for such flagrant abrogation of his responsibilities. But then! To find that the only - the only, mind you - the only applicant to be interviewed for the post of Herbology Professor is a Death Eater... a Death Eater specifically charged by Voldemort himself with corrupting the youth of Hogwarts... and then to hire him! That is not merely negligent, that is criminal. I will be making sure the public is aware of this breach of trust, this insult to the good will of every parent who sends a student to this school, and this threat to the safety of every student who attends."

Harry wished that he understood how to speak that way. Professor Sprout's last statement was an excellent example of political rhetoric, delivered in a forceful and memorable way. But thinking of politics reminded him of a real danger to his school, quite apart from Death Eater instructors. "Wouldn't that get the Ministry involved again?" Harry asked fearfully, shuddering as he remembered the reign of Dolores Umbridge.

Professor Sprout smiled sourly. "Do you think it would? Or do you think - as I do - that Fudge and his cronies might see this as an opportunity to allow Hogwarts to come to harm? To wound her so badly that their next takeover is a permanent one?"

"Please, Professor, I don't want to see the future of Hogwarts become a choice between two evils."

"Nor do I, boy, but the choice has already been made by the Headmaster of the school. If you want to change anything regarding that, you'll have to see Albus Dumbledore."

--- --- ---

When Neville came in at midday, Harry took the first opportunity to speak privately with him. "There's going to be a new professor starting here when Professor Sprout leaves," he murmured.

"I don't care," Neville dismissed the idea, refusing to consider it at all.

"Well... I thought that... in light of any plans you may have made..." Harry said slowly, trying to get Neville to acknowledge that he was being given a warning.

"I said I don't care, Potter," Neville growled, his face set with determination. "You might be surprised to learn what that means. It means that I am not concerned about the new teacher, or when he might arrive. Whatever I have planned to do, I am going to do. I am ready. I have already been quite successful in my preparations. And today, you can observe the first part of the implementation of my plans."

"Neville," Harry whispered urgently. "If he's here next Tuesday..."

"He'll still need help," Neville interrupted. "He'll have no idea where anything is, first of all. You can't show him. You don't yet know." Turning away without waiting for a reply, Neville walked to the only pot of fireseed plants in the entire collection. "Do you know what it took to get my stand of these going?" he asked rhetorically, paying no attention to Harry, who was following him despairingly. "I had to keep them in the oven for a day. The house elves gave me no end of trouble. And I did not want my grandmother to become involved." He drew his wand and scooped the loose soil away from the base of the fireseed plant stalks.

"Neville, No," Harry urged, but he was far too late. Neville murmured his spell with his wand pointed toward the exposed stalks, then immediately cast another spell in the same location. With a satisfied smile, he pushed the soil back into place. "What did you..." Harry began, but fell silent as Neville glared at him.

"Hush." Neville dismissed the question, walking away from the plant. After he was far away from the bespelled pot, he relented and quietly explained, "The first spell you wouldn't understand. It has to do with the way the roots take up water and nourishment from the soil. The second spell is a time-release spell." He turned suddenly, and Harry, following close behind, nearly ran into him. Neville put his mouth near Harry's ear and very quietly said, "It releases the first spell on Wednesday morning." He turned and continued across the greenhouse, leaving Harry standing there flustered.

"Harry!" Professor Sprout called. "Leave Neville alone and get over here. There's a lot to do."

By lunchtime, Neville was gone, and Harry left the greenhouse weighed down with worry. With a new professor on the premises, the 'plant disaster' plan would be doomed to failure. Nevertheless, Neville had bustled around the greenhouses with the light of fanaticism in his eyes, casting spells on plant after plant. Harry had to admit that Neville was right in one respect - he hadn't understood the spells, even when carefully watching Neville cast one of them - or, more properly, two of them together, since each spell was accompanied by its companion 'time-release' enchantment.

Harry was so preoccupied with those thoughts, that he nearly ran directly into Remus on the way to the castle. He pulled up short just before striding directly into the man, and immediately began apologizing.

"Whoa, Harry. Don't worry, no harm done," Remus chuckled. He immediately became concerned when he saw how upset Harry looked. "What's the matter, Harry? You look worried."

Harry was so frustrated by having to be careful over every word he uttered that he nearly screamed. His eyes darting about the grounds as though searching for spies, he said, "Oh. Nothing. Just... the new teacher coming and all. Professor Sprout leaving. Certain plans being set back. You know. The usual thing."

Remus could tell the boy was troubled, and he tried to communicate his understanding with a firm hand on Harry's shoulder, and a meaningful look into the boy's eyes. "I think I know a little of what you might be going through," he said with a slow wink. "And I think I know what might help, at least a bit. How would you like to do something fun tonight?"

Harry flinched. Remus had thought that the magical tests were fun. He had thought that practicing spells against toppling boxes and artificially generated monsters was fun. He had even thought that staying up all night to review Herbology notes was fun. What now? "I don't know," Harry said suspiciously. "What did you have in mind?"

"I thought you might like to visit the Weasleys."

"Fred and George?" Harry asked, still suspicious.

"No, I thought you might like to visit the Burrow." Harry's face split with a wide grin. "I thought so," Remus said with satisfaction. "We can't floo from here, and there's no time for two way owl post. Why don't you go get Hedwig and send a note to the Burrow saying we'll floo from Hogsmeade once you get off work today?" Harry dodged past the man and began to run toward the castle. "And address the note to Mrs. Weasley!" Remus shouted after him. "We don't know when or if anyone else will be home, and I believe she will be there!"

Harry and Remus shared lunch in the dining hall, with Harry in high spirits. He couldn't stop talking about the upcoming visit. "This will be great!" he enthused. "I really like being at the Burrow. That was the first truly magical house I ever saw, and it's still more impressive than that old pile of the Malfoys' no matter how big old Lucius' library was or how many rooms you had to walk through before finding a bathroom. The Burrow is a really great place. You feel good just being there. I can see Ron, Mrs. Weasley will feed us for sure, and maybe Hermione will be visiting as well. She and Ron were pretty serious about seeing a lot of each other this summer. And Fred and George come by for dinner a lot. Maybe they'll be there tonight. They're fun when they have time to relax and enjoy themselves."

"And Ginny," Remus added casually.

"Oh. Yeah. Ginny." Harry suddenly looked as though he had been trapped.

"Harry. You can't simply avoid the girl for the next two years. If you're not interested, let her know. You don't have to be insulting or hurtful about it, and if she gets angry at you over it, then that's her problem. She'll probably feel bad about being angry once the initial flare of it is over. And then maybe you could be friends again. You should be friends. You're both Gryffindors, and you're friends with most of her family. And there's a bigger, more important lesson to learn from this: you can't go running scared every time there's an emotional crisis to face. You're very good at handling other sorts of crises. You're going to have to learn to deal with this sort, as well."

"It's not that I'm afraid, Remus," Harry said, staring down at his plate. "It's... different. If anyone could understand, I think you could." Remus' heart swelled at the trust the cub had expressed in him. Gently smiling, he nodded to encourage Harry to continue. "Ginny - obviously - likes me. She's made it clear to family and friends, and she's even given me some clue that she's interested. I like her. And that's what I haven't wanted to say to anybody, because they would misunderstand. I like her as a little girl who has been brave while a lot of bad things happened to her, and who's my best friend's sister, and who is part of my House, and my school, and... you know, those sorts of things. But I do like her. I'm just not... um... interested in her. But like you said, she's pretty. Red hair, pale skin, slender body... pretty. And, I like that she likes me. That a pretty girl likes me enough to tell people we both know that she likes me. I'd like her to keep on liking me. Not because I want to return her interest, but... because it feels good that someone pretty likes me. You know?" By this point in his explanation, Harry's face was brilliant scarlet, and his eyes were fixed firmly on what was left of his food.

"I do know what you mean," Remus said softly. "And there are a lot of boys who are rich, or famous, or popular, who keep girls - sometimes lots of girls - hanging on and waiting for some kind of response from the rich, famous, popular guys. It's very common. And understandable, because it does feel good to have someone desirable express an interest in you. The truth is, though, that avoiding the girl, or lying to her, or keeping her waiting is simply cruel. You wouldn't want a woman you were interested in to do that to you. So you don't do that to her. You do understand, don't you?"

"I don't think it matters if I do or if I don't," Harry replied dispiritedly. "If I go to the Burrow, I'll have to face Ginny, and I'll have to be honest, and she'll have to be insulted and embarrassed and furious at me because of it... so let's just go and see what happens."

"You're a good lad, Harry. It's the being honest part that's important. Remember that and you'll be fine. Say, this was supposed to be about having fun, wasn't it? You do want to go to the Burrow, don't you?"

Harry smiled shyly and said, "I had better. I've already sent Hedwig off with my note."

"I could always floo from Hogsmeade tonight and say you had to work late."

"Don't you dare! I do want to go, honestly. In fact, I can't wait. Let's leave as soon as I'm off work. I'll even take a change of clothes down to the greenhouse with me so I don't have to come back to the tower before we go."

"You had better run up to your room and grab what you need, then - lunch hour has nearly passed."

Harry dashed out of the dining hall, excited once again.

--- --- ---

The waitress at the Three Broomsticks was quite flustered that evening as she spoke with the very attractive man and his young companion. On the one hand, she would very much like to make this particular gentleman's experience with the public house a pleasant one, in order to encourage his continued patronage, and - hopefully - convince him to be a regular customer. On the other hand, she had her instructions, directly from Madam Rosmerta, and she wasn't sure how much latitude she really had in carrying them out. She had been serving here for less than a month, and envied the rest of the staff's secure comfort in knowing exactly how the place was run. "We really can't allow people to get the idea that our floo is a... public communication device," she said apologetically. "We'd have people chatting on our hearth all day and all night. It wouldn't be seemly."

"I understand, Miss... Pardon me, what is your name?" Remus was almost comical in his exaggerated courtliness, but to Harry's amazement, the waitress seemed very flattered.

"Call me Tara, Mister...?"

"Lupin. Remus Lupin. Glad to meet you. And this is Harry Potter."

Harry saw the recognition in the waitresses widened eyes, her mouth forming a tiny 'O' and her half-step backward to be able to see him from head to toe. He wanted to cringe away from the all-too-familiar ritual, but he knew that Remus must have introduced him on purpose, so he mechanically droned out, "Pleased to meet you," and waited for whatever Remus had planned.

"Come right this way, Mister Lupin... Mister Potter," Tara said smoothly. "I'll see if one of our private floos... Oh, here... wait a moment! Madame Rosmerta? May I ask a favor of you?

Seconds later, they were in Madame Rosmerta's office, with a tin of floo powder in Remus' hand and a tiny flame flickering in the exact center of the hearth. "You two are lucky I practically live here," Rosmerta chuckled huskily. "The staff knows I would skin them alive if they started letting customers use the main floo." Her voice was deep and throaty, with the hint of a whiskey rasp overlaying the smooth tones. She addressed both of them, but her eyes never left Remus. To Harry, it seemed as though she were particularly interested in the man's hips. He wondered if she were trying to estimate the size of his wallet.

Remus turned back to look over his shoulder as he leaned far over into the hearth with a pinch of floo power between his finger and thumb. "Believe me, Rosmerta, we are very, very glad you were here tonight." He tossed the powder onto the tiny flame and spoke very crisply, "Weasley residence: the Burrow."

Mrs. Weasley answered, and immediately urged Remus to step through. Instead, he ushered Harry forward and sent the boy into the floo network and out into the Weasleys' home before him. Harry stumbled out of the floo, disoriented as always after a trip through the network. He took a moment to regain his balance and catch his breath, then dusted himself off. The dusting was a reflex. He had never come through a floo covered in ashes, but it always felt as though he was sooty when he completed his journey. He forced himself to stop the motion, thinking that it was a good thing for him that he was clean, since Mrs. Weasley would certainly not appreciate him brushing soot all over her house. Then he turned back to the floo, puzzled, waiting for Remus to appear.

"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley cried, spinning him around and wrapping him in a strong embrace. "We will have a full house tonight!"

"Uh... full house?" Harry gasped, all of the air crushed out of his lungs by the powerful hug.

"Oh, heavens, yes. Ron is here... and Ginny," Mrs. Weasley beamed up at him as she said this, as though waiting for some special response.

"Oh... good," Harry offered weakly, backing away as soon as the strength of the embrace ebbed a bit. "But they must be home most of the time. What makes tonight such a full house?"

"We have you," Mrs. Weasley cooed, leaning forward to pinch his cheek. "And Remus Lupin, if he ever makes it through the floo. And Hermione is here. And Fred and George have suggested that they might just grace us with their presence."

"That sounds great..." Harry said with a beaming smile. He had no chance to say anything further. A double shout of 'Harry!' drowned him out as Ron and Hermione ran into the room. Ron dashed up to him and grabbed his hand, pumping it madly in a crushing grip. Then Hermione took him by both shoulders, turned him to face her and wrapped him in a gentle hug. Harry wasn't quite sure where to put his hands. Every part of Hermione that he touched was soft and curvaceous and very inviting. He felt as though every touch was improperly forward. So he moved his hands quickly, searching for some neutral, friendly but not intimate way to return a hug. He realized within instants that it must look to Ron as though Harry were trying to map Hermione's entire body. He settled on leaving one hand just above her waist, and letting one trail over her hip. He sighed and relaxed and felt he could have stayed right there for hours. Hermione's hair smelled wonderful. She felt wonderful. And her hug communicated a warm, comforting friendship that Harry had missed desperately since school had been dismissed at end of term. As Hermione released him and stepped back, smiling, Harry noticed one other thing right away. Her hair - still chaotic and madly tangled when seen in extreme closeup - now floated about her head like a cloud. Hermione's wild, messy hair had finally fallen into its own unique style, framing her face with a gentle softness that a more orderly or severe style could never accomplish. They gazed into each other's eyes, smiling. Harry realized that he loved her deeply, but he wasn't jealous of Ron in the least. This was Hermione. A romance between the two of them would have made no sense. Their love was solid, abiding and reliable. And if Harry had any luck in this world, that love would survive through many romances on both of their parts. 'Poor Ron,' Harry thought absently. Ron would be Hermione's first 'romance' ... maybe even her first love. But she would certainly move on. Harry was surprised to find that he wasn't anywhere near as sure of what Ron would do as he was in Hermione's case. Would Ron pine, mope, or become depressed when their relationship broke up? Would he shrug it off? Party and fool around? Find someone new? 'Odd,' Harry thought. 'The bloke's my best friend.' Harry and Hermione's long eye contact, which had seemed to freeze the world around them, finally broke as Hermione turned to Ron, and Mrs. Weasley checked the floo for the tardy Remus. Harry was watching his friends happily when he was shocked at a voice right behind his right ear.

"It's about time." The sound was sultry, the pronunciation a slow drawl. It was as though someone barely a teenager were trying to imitate the smoke and whiskey sound of Madame Rosmerta's voice. Harry turned toward the speaker, which was exactly what she had intended him to do. Slender arms snaked around his neck, and Ginny pressed herself to him, her thighs meeting his thighs, her shoulders pressed into his chest, and every part of her in between making a sort of grinding motion. Harry gasped in shock as Ginny's slender arms pulled hard on his neck, turning his face toward hers. She kissed him full on the mouth. Her lips remained closed, and the contact lasted for only an instant - Harry suspected that Ginny had chosen that particular moment for the kiss to coincide with her mother checking the floo once again - but the effect on Harry was instantaneous. To keep his hands from flailing about stupidly, he gripped Ginny tightly around the waist. To hide the embarrassingly prominent evidence of his own arousal, he pressed her hips tightly to his own. She squirmed, and he felt his own pulse pounding. "Wow," he said, barely aware that he had made any sound at all.

"Yes," Ginny replied primly, still wiggling against him. "Wow. Thanks for all the letters this summer." As her mother glared at her, Ginny prudently stepped back from Harry. To his relief, Remus stepped through the floo just then, drawing everyone's attention. Harry quickly adjusted his clothes.

"Well, finally," Mrs. Weasley huffed. "Remus Lupin, we've been worried about you. What happened?"

With his exaggerated courtliness that had served so well at the Three Broomsticks still in place, Remus replied, "I had to assure Madame Rosmerta that we were truly grateful for the use of her floo. She in turn had to exact a promise that, in return, I would patronize her establishment more often."

The sound of the door interrupted the conversation. "Arthur?" Mrs. Weasley called.

"No, Mom," Fred shouted back. "It's only us."

The twins joined everyone else with friendly greetings all around - and an especial grilling for Harry. "What kept you away?" George taunted.

"All summer long," Fred added in mock mournfulness.

"Work," Harry insisted. "And it's not all summer, it's only been a week."

"A week, two weekends and most of today," George corrected.

"And that's all the summer that there has been. So you've been absent all of it - so far."

"Boys, let Harry tell us about his job," Mrs. Weasley scolded. "Are you making a lot of money, dear?"

Harry had no idea how to reply to that. He could tell that Fred and George were waiting to make fun of him if he said anything stupid. But his situation was stupid. He had been so focused on begging for a place to stay this summer that he had forgotten to ask for any pay at all. His face flushed bright red. 'I could rent myself out as a traffic signal,' he thought, irritated at himself for being so easily embarrassed. But it certainly seemed as though there had been a great deal of cause for being embarrassed over the past few days. "No, not really. I mean, I'm staying at the castle. They feed me. And I had to be trained. I still don't know the job all that well..." he trailed off, hoping the subject would simply drop. But Fred and George jumped on his admission like terriers onto a rat.

"Room and board?"

"No pay at all, from the sound of it."

"And with all that room in the castle..."

"And the house elves practically demanding to have someone to cook for..."

"You're as close to being free labor as they could have found!"

Harry stood stiffly, waiting for the bombardment of ridicule to be over. To his shock, the next salvo was fired by Ron, who very innocently reported, "They were going to give Neville a Professor's stipend. Professor Sprout thought he might be interested in teaching some day, and she said that Neville should learn what a teacher's salary amounted to."

"She said?" Harry asked skeptically.

"Well... Neville said she said. He wasn't bragging. More like whining, if anything. Apparently teachers don't make very much."

"And Harry does 'em one better by not making anything at all!" Fred crowed.

"Way to underbid the competition, Harry," George saluted in mock congratulation. "When you really want to win the bid, there's no offer lower than zero."

"Boys!" Molly Weasley said angrily. "You sound like... like Malfoys, going on and on about money. If Harry had an opportunity to learn Herbology over the summer without paying tuition, then good for him for putting in the work. However," she said soothingly, turning to Harry and brushing a lock of hair away from his eyes, "I do have the occasional opportunity to speak with the Headmaster. Next time I do, I will be sure to mention that I do not find it appropriate for Hogwarts to hire a student without giving him some compensation." Her jaw was set, and Harry thought he could see the signs of a serious tongue-lashing for Dumbledore on its way.

The door opened once again, and Molly called out "Arthur?" His faint 'Yes, Dear," sounded through the house, and Molly herded everyone toward the dining room. "What are we doing standing around like this? Come on, everyone find a seat. Ron, get the extra chairs from the living room, please."

Dinner was wonderful. Loud and confusing, with bowls of food being passed back and forth in a complex weaving pattern that was fascinating and even a bit hypnotic to watch, and very comforting to be a part of.

As dinner progressed, with multiple conversations to compliment the food, Fred called everyone's attention to himself. "I have an admission to make," he announced, provoking a stern look from his mother. "George and I have an ulterior motive for being here tonight."

Harry was worried. Would they bring up the magical tests, or the practices? Would they talk about how he had performed against the various hazards he had been presented with in their warehouse? Suddenly, he was very aware of how dangerous it was to have even one other person aware of a secret you wished to keep - and how much more dangerous it was to have a pair of jokers like the Weasley twins privy to your secret plans.

"We actually came to ask Ginny if she would care to have a bit of a summer job," George explained.

"Not in the store," Fred hastened to add. "That place is a zoo, and I know Mom wouldn't approve of Ginny's first job being behind that particular counter."

"But our warehouse is no different from any good, solid retail business' warehouse."

"You could learn a lot by working there, little sister."

"And - unlike Hogwarts - the Weasley warehouse pays wages."

"Real money - in galleons."

"On a trial basis, naturally."

"On both parties' parts."

"If you hate it, you leave with no hard feelings."

"If you don't work out, we sack you."

"And Mom beats us mercilessly."

"What do you say?"

Ginny regarded her brothers shrewdly. She was about to ask a question when her mother interrupted. "Boys. What have I said about discussing business at the dinner table? This is even worse. You put your sister on the spot, right in front of everyone, and you haven't even had time to discuss any of the details of what you're offering. No. If she accepts, this will be Ginny's first job, and I want her to learn the correct way to go about accepting employment. You will discuss this after dinner. No more about it now." Fred held up a hand as though to ask for permission to speak, and Molly stopped him cold. "No more. Let the girl think about it, and then we'll go over your proposal together. I mean it, George!" She snapped as the other twin opened his mouth. "Now, Remus, you were talking about your time in London."

The conversation took up where Fred had interrupted it, and Harry was left to wonder: what were the twins thinking of? If Ginny were employed at the warehouse, he was certain to run into her sooner or later. How was he to explain his arrival? 'Oh, nothing much - just because this is the most heavily warded business space in Britain, I'll be practicing wandless magic as preparation for taking over the world...' It sounded ridiculous even to him. He was brooding so heavily that he didn't realize Ron was speaking to him until he felt the punch hit his shoulder.

"Hey, mate - you deaf? I said, did you really get attacked at school?"

"Huh? Oh... oh, yeah. Four boys. Dressed as Slytherins. They... uh... flew at me on brooms."

Hermione looked concerned. Ginny looked very impressed. Ron scoffed at Harry's cautious description. "What do you mean, 'dressed as' Slytherins? Who else would attack you?"

"I don't really know," Harry said carefully. "But it makes more sense that whoever it was would have worn some kind of disguise than that four Slytherins would wear their school robes to come after me. Especially if they were disguised as... you know... someone I would suspect anyway. I mean, one of them looked just like Gregory Goyle. But there was no Malfoy. Now, when has Goyle ever done anything on his own? Especially anything that involved getting three other people organized enough to come to Hogwarts, on brooms, and fire curses at me? How did they even know I was there?"

"Did they say anything?" Hermione asked, already trying to work out who might have been clever enough to pretend to be Goyle.

"Yeah," Harry said, trying to dismiss the whole matter, and unwilling to meet Hermione's eyes. "One said some things about a contest. The winner supposedly gets a prize from Vol... uh... You Know Who. It sounded like a lot of rot. It sure didn't make much sense."

"What was the prize?" Ron wanted to know.

"Um... if you can believe any of it... I mean, it was pretty stupid. But, if Vo... You Know Who takes over Britain, the winner would get to be Duke of Dorchester."

Ron's look of surprised, disgusted disbelief was so comical that Harry laughed out loud.

"How did you get rid of them?" Ginny purred, eyes sparkling.

"Set their brooms on fire," Harry replied with a shrug, then quickly added, "Just a regular Incendio spell. Nothing special."

"He's so modest," George taunted.

"Just an Incendio," Fred mocked. "Nothing special."

"He sets four brooms aflame, and sends the miscreants packing."

Fred put on his best American cowboy-movie accent. "Shucks, M'am. It warn't nuthin."

Hermione saw the possible clue immediately. "What sort of brooms were they, Harry?"

"I don't know. They burned to ash. Completely destroyed."

Hermione scowled. "Then... how did the attackers get away?"

"They ran."

"Didn't you have any help? Didn't anyone come out to see what was on fire?"

"Oh, yeah. Professor Snape, and Professor Sprout, and Remus."

Hermione turned to glare at Lupin. "And they ran away." Remus raised an eyebrow, but before he could comment, Hermione angrily demanded, "They ran away? With three professors there? And their broomsticks burned to nothing, so they were unable to fly? On Hogwarts grounds, so they were unable to apparate? With no reinforcements in sight, they - ran - away? What were you thinking?"

"Hermione," Molly Weasley said warningly, "show some respect for Mister Lupin. You don't know what happened, or what the situation was, or what else they may have had to deal with."

"Pardon me, Molly, but I understand Miss Granger's reaction quite well," Remus said smoothly, hoping that a reasonable explanation would keep two fiery tempers in check. "When we arrived - Professor Snape and myself were there first, Professor Sprout actually arrived quite a bit later - we were more concerned with Harry's safety than with anything else. Then, there was the matter of the fire. It wouldn't have done to capture the attackers and have the entire Herbology department burn down. After we were satisfied that Harry was fine, and the fires were out, we had to check the area for curses. Quite a bit of very violent magic had been cast in a short time over a small area. As it happened, all three of us had to spend quite a bit of energy disenchanting the grounds."

"And Harry wasn't harmed at all?" Ginny asked.

"Apparently not," Remus said. "He handled himself quite well."

Harry glanced across the table to see Ginny grinning at him, an extremely possessive look in her eyes.

When dinner was over, Ron and Hermione volunteered to clear the table, Molly took Ginny and the twins away to discuss Ginny's possible summer employment at her bothers' warehouse, Arthur and Remus went off to the sitting room to enjoy a brandy, and Harry found himself left behind, still sitting in front of his dessert plate. He picked up some dishes and drifted into the kitchen, where Ron and Hermione were organizing the washing-up.

Ron turned a reproachful look on him as he approached. "Bloody Hell, Harry, are you trying to get us all grounded?"

Harry was baffled. "Huh?"

"Carrying on with Ginny like that, barely a foot away from our mom."

"Ron, she hugged me."

"She sure did," Ron snarled, turning away and running hot water into the sink. "You two were practically having it off right in front of the floo. I mean, fun's fun, but she's still my sister."

Harry wanted to defend himself, but there was nothing he could say that wouldn't make the situation worse. Could he tell Ron he wasn't really interested in Ginny? That would only make him seem like more of a jerk for what Ron perceived as his sexual liberties. Could he tell Ron that it was Ginny who had practically climbed onto him? He knew Ron would hear that as an attack on his sister's character. Harry had nearly resigned himself to having to ride out another of Ron's temper tantrums when Hermione said, "When I told you she was interested in you, I didn't expect you to treat her like a plaything. If that's how you feel about women, I'm sorry I said anything."

"Uh... guys?" Harry said tentatively. He felt stupid apologizing, but he could see no other options. "I'm really sorry. I hope you can understand that and forgive me for my exuberant behavior. I was just really, really glad to see you all."

"Yeah... Right..." Ron groused, thunking dishes into the sink.

Hermione, however, turned to study Harry through narrowed eyes. "Harry?" Harry only grunted. "Exuberant?"

"I'm apologizing, all right?" Harry said, exasperated.

"Yes, I got that. But... 'Exuberant?' Have you been taking speech classes?"

"Something like that," he admitted, then his annoyance was too much to contain. "I'm working, I'm studying, I'm practicing. I'm trying to make something of myself. It's a lot of work, and I don't think I'm doing all that well with it. I was really glad to see you. This is the first break I've had in over a week, and I wanted to relax and spend some time with my best friends. So I'm sorry." He found himself staring into two shocked, wide eyed faces. Calming down, he told them both sincerely. "I am really glad to see you. And I'm really sorry. So let's get these washed before I have to leave."

"Great," Ron grumbled. "Now he sounds like bloody Percy."

The dishwashing took some time, but at least none of the guests had to get their hands wet. Ron hadn't spent years as the youngest brother in a crowded house without learning some of the household charms on which Molly Weasley prided herself. With scrubbing brushes, sponges and drying towels enchanted into furious action, even a mighty pile of utensils such as was generated by a Weasley dinner went through the washing, rinsing and drying operations in a steady flow that showed appreciable progress immediately. Ron directed the putting away, and by the time the job was done, some of the tension among the three friends had dissipated.

The negotiations between Ginny, the twins and their mother were taking longer than Harry had anticipated. He, Ron and Hermione sat at the dining table and compared notes on their summers. Harry was immediately jealous. Ron and Hermione had spent several long, lazy days together already, Ron visiting the Grangers' home and getting some first hand experience with the muggle world, and Hermione spending time at the Burrow. Harry talked about his work in Herbology, and while Ron was suitably impressed with the sheer volume of labor required, Hermione was clearly dissatisfied with Harry's descriptions of his days. There was too much missing in what he was telling them - especially the 'study and practice' that he had referred to earlier.

Harry found himself becoming more and more vague and offhand about what he had been doing. He had come to the Burrow fully intending to introduce his friends to at least the basics of what he had been trying to accomplish, and - if they seemed supportive at all - to enlist their help. As the conversation progressed, he became unsure of how much it was safe to reveal. His friends sat like an old married couple, not touching, not holding hands, not even particularly close to one another, listening to his story as Ron prodded him for more information, and Hermione critically reviewed what had already been said. 'If the two of them were aurors,' Harry thought, 'I would have been arrested by now.'

Just when Harry's uncertainty and nervousness had built to the point where his voice was about to begin shaking, the Weasley job conference broke up, and all four participants came out to join him. Ginny looked smug, the twins were smiling, but Molly looked very dissatisfied.

"Looks like I got a summer job, too," Ginny bragged, hitching a chair close enough to Harry's to be able to drape an arm across his shoulders. This drew broad grins from the twins, a glare from Ron, a measuring look from Hermione, and a slap to Ginny's wrist from Molly.

"Don't hang on the boy," Mrs. Weasley scolded. "Or I'll not trust you out of this house again."

"Yes, M'am," Ginny said meekly, with an expression of sincere contrition. She scooted her chair a half inch away from Harry's, then grinned and reached out to give him a quick pinch. "I'll be working nearly full time until school starts again."

"That's... great. Um... A lot to do at the warehouse, then, guys?" Harry stared up at the twins as though asking them to save him. They studiously missed the point.

"Not really," Fred shrugged.

"That's the beauty of the plan," George said.

"Ginny will be able to learn the entire breadth of the operation."

"Before the really busy season starts."

"At which time we would be unable to teach her anything."

"Because we'd be running like headless chickens."

"Headless chickens!" Fred exclaimed, his face alight with inspiration.

"Ectoplasmic? Hallucinatory? Remote control?"

"Why not all three?"

"Can we have them by Christmas?"

"Too late. We'll need 'em by Halloween."

"Boys!" Mrs. Weasley shouted. "Stop that right now. That's disgusting. Headless chickens."

"Remote control headless chickens," George corrected sweetly.

"Ugh." Molly Weasley went to join the adults in the sitting room. Watching her mother to make sure she didn't turn back, Ginny stroked Harry's arm. Hermione scowled, nearly said something, then decided against it.

"If there's not a lot of work," Harry ventured hesitantly, "How did you two decide to hire Ginny?"

"Something one of our advisors said."

"When you're in business, you have to pay attention to the advice of your advisors."

"And when Ms. Black makes a suggestion..."

"It makes sense to look for ways to implement it."

Harry was horrified. For all his best intentions, and his determination to be honest about his own feelings, Ginny's own brothers were setting them up for liaisons that Harry himself wanted no part of. He thought of Narcissa's cold comment when Harry admitted he had no girlfriend: 'We'll have to change that.' The implication had been very sexy... but there had been no romance implied at all. Were the twins willing to facilitate that? Ron was still angry over Harry and Ginny sharing a hug. Had Fred and George actually thought about what they were doing? Before he could think of anything to say, Remus walked into the room and called to him, quietly, but with a finality that left no room for debate.

"Harry. Early day tomorrow. Say goodbye and we'll go out to apparate home. We'll still have quite a walk to the castle from the closest apparation point."

Everyone walked out into the yard to see them off. The twins were grinning, the adults conversing softly, Ron scowling, Hermione silent. Ginny pressed herself to Harry's side and slid an arm around his waist, falling immediately into step with him. Harry thought he might be able to send a subtle signal by simply letting his arm hang behind hers and not encircling her waist in turn. On their second step together, his hanging arm swung forward, clapping his palm over her arse. "Mmmm," she purred.

As Remus reached a place he felt was appropriate to use for apparation, everyone said goodbye again. Ginny hugged Harry hard, and broke away only when her mother was about to reach for her to pull her back. "I'll miss you," she whispered. "Write me." The twins clapped Harry on the shoulder and reminded him to watch for Remote Control Headless Chickens this Halloween, Arthur shook his hand and reminded him he was welcome back anytime, Molly pinched his cheeks and wished him good luck in his summer job, and Ron gave a weak wave and murmured, "See you, mate," listlessly. Hermione hugged him closely and whispered, "We have to talk."

Harry whispered back, "I'll owl you," and it was time to go. Remus wrapped his arms around the boy and with a loud report, the two were gone.

--- --- ---

Remus let Harry go as they appeared on the Hogsmeade path outside of the Hogwarts grounds. As always after apparation, Harry was a little disoriented. He envied Remus his composure and equilibrium that the werewolf maintained after every apparation.

Giving Harry a chance to regain his balance before setting off for the castle, Remus asked, "Did you have fun?"

Harry shook his head, uncertain how to explain himself. "Yes and no," he said, and saw that Remus was waiting for a more complete response. "I was really happy to see Hermione and Ron, and I think they were happy to see me. And then Ginny came running in and hugged me, and Ron got all huffy and Hermione... what?"

Remus was laughing. He had enough self-control to keep from guffawing out loud, but his eyes sparkled and behind his gentle smile, he was shaking with mirth. "She did rather want to make her feelings clear in one particular respect, didn't she?"

"I never got a chance to talk to her without a crowd around. So when she said goodbye, it was more of the same, and she said she would miss me, and to write to her and... what?"

Remus had raised a finger in a 'eureka' gesture the moment Harry had mentioned writing. "Then that's what you should do," he suggested. "Write about very general, non-romantic things. Or write down exactly what you would have told her if you had been allowed the opportunity. Letters are a very important form of communication - more so for wizards than for muggles, I believe. You will need to learn to use that form of communication, and here's a perfect opportunity."

Harry scowled. "It seems kind of cowardly," he said. "Writing what I didn't have the courage to say to her face. I don't think I like the idea very much."

"Ah, well. Up to you," Remus said, starting to stroll toward Hogwarts, and motioning for Harry to get moving as well. The two of them walked in companionable silence toward the massive front entrance, which stood wide open, light streaming out into the night. As they mounted the stairs leading to that opening, part of the light was eclipsed by an imposing figure, who stood blocking their way.

Albus Dumbledore stood regarding the two of them with frosty disapproval. "Mister Lupin. And here is Mister Potter as well. Tell me, if you will: Exactly Where Have You Been?"

Remus cocked his head slightly, as though regarding Dumbledore from a different angle might help him make sense of the Headmaster's question. "We have been with Arthur and Molly Weasley, at their home." It was obvious that Dumbledore was not about to move, so rather than trying to push past, Remus stood on one of the steps, leaving him on a level somewhat lower than the one the Headmaster occupied.

"Mister Lupin. Do you think that is at all wise?"

Remus chuckled slightly. Still smiling, he said, "I think it's a damn sight wiser than having Harry tagging along with Professor Snape and myself as we sought Malfoys throughout Britain."

"Harry was away from Hogwarts," Dumbledore persisted. "Without the protections afforded by her grounds and walls, and without the blood magic that has kept him safe with his relatives."

"At the Burrow?!" Remus nearly shouted. "When I flooed into that place, I could feel the wards all over my skin. And those wards were set last year particularly with Harry in mind! Once the house accepted me - I know, that's an odd way to put it - but once the house recognized that I was a welcome visitor, it was rather comforting, as though I were being coddled by protective spells throughout my visit. But with Arthur, and Molly, and myself there... Yes, I think it was wise. In fact, I think it was the wisest thing we have done as regards this young man in the days since last term ended."

"Mister Lupin. If you cannot be counted upon to behave in a trustworthy manner, I shall have no choice but to..." Dumbledore's pronouncement was cut short by one soft but insistent word.

"Headmaster?" Harry interrupted.

"Ah... Harry? I am in the midst of..."

"Why am I not being paid?"

"What? Oh, no... no. My dear boy, you are being paid in exactly the coin for which you bargained."

"It seems that if I perform my duties without receiving any compensation, and I am forbidden to leave the grounds, that I am nothing more than a slave. I work hard in Herbology. I also worked hard for the Order, on those nights that Remus, Professor Snape and I were sent out on your instructions. I have asked for no wages. If you are going to imprison me as well, I will have to take exception to your decision."

"Ah. Will you?" Dumbledore drew himself to his full height. With his hair and beard backlit by the illumination from the castle, he looked like more than a mere wizard. He appeared the embodiment of a force of nature, terrible in his fury. "And what form will your exception take?"

Harry spread his hands, demonstrating that both were empty. He stared directly into Dumbledore's eyes. He took a step forward and up one stair. "You. Don't. Want. To. Know."

The Headmaster made as if to speak. His eyes widened in shock as his jaw refused to move. Involuntarily, he took a step backward. Then another.

Harry's voice remained low. His eyes remained fixed on Dumbledore's. "I have an early day tomorrow. I am going to bed." He walked into the castle entrance and casually past the Headmaster. He turned to face him at close range. "Don't. Blame. Remus. I needed a night off. I got it. Thank you for your consideration." He turned and slowly climbed the stairs, leaving two adults gaping up at his retreating form.

As Harry mounted the steps to Gryffindor Tower he could see a tall, dark figure in swirling robes approaching the portrait of the Fat Lady along the corridor. He felt a momentary stab of panic, thinking a dementor had invaded the castle. Instead, as he forced himself to focus on what he was actually seeing, rather than what he feared would happen as a result of his confrontation with Dumbledore, he realized that the figure was that of Professor Snape, carrying a stack of books.

Snape glared down at the boy, watching him climb. Once Harry was within range of quiet conversation, Snape told him, "It was not wise to challenge the Headmaster in that way."

Harry felt an immediate rush of anger. "He..."

Snape cut off the protest with a hiss. "Ssst. I did not say that he did not deserve such treatment, nor that it was without its immediate emotional reward. I did... and still do... say that it was unwise. Professor Dumbledore is very perceptive. You have revealed much to him in two small demonstrations. Three, if we count your defense against the broom-mounted attackers of last week. Often, it is much more prudent to develop a skill fully rather than display it prematurely. Here." As Harry stood before him, Snape pushed the stack of books into the boy's arms. The weight of the stack nearly sent Harry toppling back down the stairs. "Read these. All of them. Pick one and start. Read it through. Be prepared to discuss your findings with me. After tonight's unexcused leave of absence from the campus, it will be difficult to organize your education in the fine points of wizard society. You cannot learn it all from books. But you can certainly get a good idea of what you don't know by reading. Have the first one finished no later than Wednesday night. I will be interested to hear your impressions after work Thursday. We are out of time." Snape stepped past Harry and swept down the staircase, his robe trailing in his wake. Harry gawked at his retreating form for a moment, then gave the password to the Fat Lady and entered the common room.

He put the heavy stack down onto the table he had last used for Herbology notes. He took a moment to appreciate the freedom that he enjoyed by having all of the other students gone for the summer. The common room was his, to serve him as dining room, study hall, or private refuge, and he was assured of being uninterrupted unless he specifically invited company, as he had in the case of Remus. He realized that he would feel a miserly reluctance to share 'his' common room when school reconvened. Taking one more proprietary look around, he sighed and turned to the books Snape had given him to study.

'Your Personal Hair Story: Using Your Head to tell Wizarding Society Who You Are' was the first tome at the top of the stack. Harry would have guessed that such a frivolous sounding work might have been thin; no more than a pamphlet. But this heavily-bound tome was a full two inches in depth, and filled with illustrations - both photographs and drawings - along with footnotes and a massive bibliography. It also contained, in cleverly sewn-in pockets in both covers, metal tools that gleamed with a silvery shimmer. It could probably be safely presumed that they were tools for curling, cutting and braiding hair, but since Harry had never seen anything like them previously, he had no idea how they might be put to use. In elementary school, Harry had thought shield markings, family crests and coats of arms were interesting. He had looked at one book on Heraldry, however, and had given up trying to learn the meticulously detailed rules regarding colors, symbols and rights of inheritance. This was similar, but even worse. It would certainly take longer than two nights to plow through even a superficial review of that one. He put it aside.

He also passed on trying to learn 'Robertson's Rules' for holding formal meetings among wizards, including special chapters covering circumstances such as those in which some participants were contributing via floo, or when ghosts were included in the panel. He put aside 'Diplomatic Presentations,' which contained complete descriptions of the proper ceremony for bestowing the Orders of Merlin, broken down by class, and included the oaths of office taken by various elected officials. One of the heaviest volumes was entitled 'Pan-British Heritage,' and contained a number of extremely detailed family trees. Harry stared at one of them, trying to make sense of it. But since wizards tend to live very long lives, almost every wizard had married several times, and all of the witches they had been married to had been married several times, and the trees became very confusing. There were also lines similar to marriage lines that connected women to women and men to men. Harry wasn't sure what these were, but they seemed to have as much importance as the marriages. Harry closed the book and started a separate stack with it. The books that would join that stack would be the 'left for last' volumes.

About halfway through the pile, Harry came to a thin volume which looked small enough to finish in the required time, and interesting besides. 'Social Semaphore, Sending Signals Through Wand Position in Peaceful Society' hinted at information that might have saved him some recent embarrassment. He puzzled for a while over the 'Peaceful Society' part of the title, but when he recalled what Remus had said about wizards needing to trust one another in order to use their wands for such communication, it seemed to make more sense. Leaving the rest of the books on the common room table, he took the thin volume up to his room with him. Reviewing his Herbology notes wouldn't really do him much good, since Neville was going to wipe out every plant in the collection that he had taken cuttings from. So Harry thought he had better get busy with the reading Snape had assigned. 'Homework again,' he sighed. There would apparently be no rest for him this summer.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Neville bustled through the kitchen, dodging house elves and apologizing as he went. So far as the elves were concerned, he could have kept the apologies to himself if he would simply have kept his heavy-footed human form out of their kitchen. It was bad enough to have plants - and their accompanying dirt and water and rough clay pots - scattered throughout the habitually clean Longbottom home, but having the boy trespass into what was unquestionably house elf territory and take up space in the ovens, as well as in cold storage, was very vexing, indeed.

Neville opened one of the cabinets in which he had created a perfectly tropical environment for the Tiger Weed that was just starting to show its characteristic striped coloration on the newest growth. He placed a bowl of water on the lower shelf to give himself something to work with and started the complex enchantment that would turn the moisture into a warm jungle rain for the benefit of the Tiger Weed.

Trilby, one of the oldest house elves in Neville's grandmother's service, stood scowling at the boy's efforts, tapping one foot impatiently. "Is Neville Longbottom, Sir, intent on wet-rotting the cabinets which has stood in his family's home for generations?" the elf inquired sarcastically.

Neville finished the line of the spell he had been speaking, then kept his wand moving in a circular motion as he replied to the elf. "I've already told you, Trilby. These things will be gone in two weeks at most. They are very, very valuable, and they are important to my future career as well as to my current studies. Please, Trilby, help me keep these plants healthy and you will be doing me a tremendous favor."

"Help you?" Trilby yelped. "You is running me out of my kitchen already! Look - walruswort in the coldbox, fireseed in the bread oven, tiger-thing wet-rotting the cabinet. It is hard to put dinner on the table, Mister Neville Longbottom! And your room is a terrible mess!" By the time Trilby had finished the list of tribulations, he was dancing from one foot to the other, clearly impatient to get Neville's vegetable experiments out of the house altogether.

"Trilby, stay out of my room. The plants in there are dangerous. I have put most of the normal ones outside, where they won't bother anyone. But in my room, you might well get hurt. Do not go in there. I have told you that you don't have to clean in there until I have had a chance to move the plants away."

"Mister Neville Longbottom misses the whole point," Trilby said with a snort, crossing his arms and scowling. "Trilby does not have to clean - Trilby never has to clean. Trilby wants to clean! Trilby wants this house to be clean. And those plants is bringing in dirt to this house. And taking up all the space in the bread oven!"

"Two weeks, Trilby," Neville said, closing the cabinet as his miniature monsoon began. "Please, help me." Neville rose and made the rounds of the rest of the kitchen. The fireseed plants were warm enough, and the walruswort needed only a bit of extra ice packed firmly around its roots to be perfectly happy. Neville waved and smiled at the pouting Trilby and then climbed the stairs to his own room. As he had told the elf, the most dangerous plants were in here - but most of them were so young as to pose little threat to anyone, even the smallest of the house elves. There was a tiny Devil's Snare, its miniscule vine tips thrashing the air as it detected his presence. A mandrake had just sprouted, showing a light green double-leaf just above the level of the soil in its pot. Those plants were healthy and easy to care for. More problematic were the plants that required a great deal of dry warmth. Neville turned back his blanket to inspect a pythonroot, which had grown alarmingly since he had repotted the cutting he had taken from the ancient pythonroot at Hogwarts; and a pennywhistle bramble, which was nearly large enough to develop the hollow blossoms that gave the plant its name. If the blossoms did start to appear, he would have to move the plant far away from the house. His grandmother would never stand for the piercing sound a mature plant could produce. Neville's blanket had been spelled to generate heat, and for most of his life, it had kept him warm on the coldest nights. But the magic was usually quiescent during the day, only beginning to warm as bedtime approached, acting as a bedwarmer which could then be adjusted for maximum comfort once he climbed under its soft, comforting weight. But with plants like the pythonroot and pennywhistle bramble requiring consistent warming, the blanket had been going non-stop for days already. He sincerely hoped that he would not burn it out with the use it would get over the next week or so. It was a treasured reminder of his childhood, and one he did not wish to lose.

He sat down on the only edge of his bed that was not covered by plants, then stretched out along the thin strip he had left himself to sleep on. He would have to go to the garden next, and check on the pots in which he had planted most of his hardiest cuttings. They would need water at least, and possibly some further work. And, they would all need another treatment with the accelerated growth spells he had been feeding them with since he put them there. The magic was, in many ways, more work than the potting and watering and weeding. After casting repeated growth accelerator spells, he usually felt as though the energy he had given the plants had come directly from his own vitality. He was certainly hungrier these days than he had been in recent memory, and he was drinking water as though he were a sprouting plant himself. Hungry, thirsty and tired, he was irritating the house elves and risking the ire of his grandmother - and for what? Hogwarts had a new Herbology professor. Potter was still Dumbledore's favorite. Neville himself was known as a dangerously clumsy, potentially disastrously inept student to everyone except Professor Sprout - who was leaving. What was he trying to accomplish with his wild scheme?

For one thing, he was trying to show - to himself at least - that he could conceive of a plan and carry it out. He was thoroughly sick and tired of being 'Longbottom the Lost'... or whatever the other kids really called him behind his back, which he imagined was probably a bit more obscene and a lot nastier in intent. He was also proving to himself that he could cast very advanced magic. The spells that he had placed on those plants remaining at Hogwarts would mimic real plant diseases. The time-release triggers he had put on them would allow his magic to operate when he intended for it to begin, then dispel all traces of it once it had accomplished its purpose. And the concealment spells he had covered the others with would prevent them from being detected prematurely.

'The problem with you, Longbottom,' he thought angrily, 'is that you're not decisive enough. There is a time to be bold, and you...' With some embarrassment, he contemplated a number of situations in which he had found himself thinking through every aspect of a situation rather than seizing the initiative and choosing positive action. Often, he would decide what to do only when the opportunity to do anything had already passed. Harry Potter, by contrast, was very decisive, and it was in cooperating with Potter that Neville had begun this whole project. But was Potter worthy of Neville's loyalty? Harry had said they couldn't trust Dumbledore. Neville had been angry enough with Dumbledore's decisions that he had been willing to believe the Headmaster was no longer trustworthy. He was still angry enough over losing Professor Sprout that he had gone through with his plan - a plan which amounted to hijacking the entire Hogwarts Herbology collection. He fully intended to return the valuable plants to the school. His complex set of spells would create no more than a temporary inconvenience for Hogwarts, and that inconvenience would help return some sanity to the operation the Herbology department. Potter needed to be excused from working there, at the same time as the new professor realized how badly he needed Neville's help. Neville had been certain that the plan he had crafted would benefit everyone. But now that the plan was complete - except for waiting for the time-release spells to work - he worried that he may have been unwise. At the very least, he was forcing himself to be uncomfortably proactive, well beyond the labors he had already accomplished. In the situation he had created for himself, he would be forced to continue to take action, to be decisive, to draw attention to himself - and the prospect was frightening. He would have to be assertive as he introduced himself to the new Herbology professor. He would have to remain confident in his own abilities, and he would have to speak up to offer help when the proper time came. By comparison, the magic with which he had doomed the denizens of the Hogwarts greenhouses and accelerated the growth of the cuttings he had taken from those very same plants was easy.

Once again, he reminded himself that he hadn't actually killed any of the plants he had bespelled. By taking cuttings and growing those, he had assured the continuation of the same individuals who were growing at Hogwarts. 'It's like pruning,' he thought. 'Keep the good part, which I am caring for, and prune away the portion growing at Hogwarts.' But he still felt bad whenever he thought of his spells waiting to decimate the school's collection.

He would have liked to simply lie there for the rest of the day, napping, taking it easy, and occasionally going down to the kitchen - not to check on his plants, but to get a snack and a drink. Instead, he knew that he had to care for that part of his project which was now housed in his garden. Rising, and carefully covering the pythonroot and pennywhistle with his enchanted blanket, he dragged himself off to continue his work.

--- --- ---

Harry spent most of Tuesday doing simple things in the greenhouse: watering, feeding and checking for weeds, which, despite the best efforts of Professor Sprout, still occasionally plagued even the plants within the greenhouses. Harry felt as though he were nursing terminally ill patients. He didn't know exactly which of his patients was going to die (except for the fireseed plants - he had watched Neville cast the fatal spells on those) but he knew that the outlook was grim for many of them, and all he could do was make their last days as comfortable as possible. Professor Sprout seemed to share a similar feeling, although Harry was certain she knew nothing of what Neville had done. Now that there was a replacement slated to start as soon as she left - even though she thoroughly disapproved of the man - she felt her 'lame duck' status very strongly. She was still on the job, she was still responsible for the department, but she was not making plans for next term's lessons, she was not choosing the plants on which upcoming classes would work, and she was not organizing the advanced projects on which gifted students such as Neville would be working. She wasn't even trying to ready the Herbology Department for survival without supervision, since a supervisor - although a contemptible one - would be stepping in as soon as she left. She had a week to go on the job, but she had run her department so efficiently that she had practically nothing left to do. She wasn't very interested in teaching Harry how to perform the routine chores that would be necessary for him to continue his summer employment - that work could be left up to her successor. It would be his plans and his policies and his programs that Harry would be carrying out, anyway. So it was a melancholy atmosphere in which Harry worked, mostly without any supervision at all.

In the evening, he devoured the book on 'Social Semaphore' that Snape had given him. Knowing that the potions professor would be dissatisfied with vague impressions or a general overview of the subject, Harry took notes, trying to distill the lessons included in the book into a simple, organized system. He memorized several examples, as well - starting with the 'crossed wands' signal that he had learned so memorably such a short time ago. He found several examples fascinating, such as the way in which the stylized opening of a formal wizard's duel had evolved. The salute, with wands pointed skyward, was intended to keep the combatants from casting spells before the judge of the duel had given the signal to begin. For a time, during the thirteenth century, when duels were particularly common, wizards were required to point the tips of their wands directly between their own eyes, so that any curses cast prematurely would be driven directly into the offender's own brain. For several hundred years, Harry learned, witches were forbidden to participate in formal duels - until the infamous Morgan Hamilton cut down the entire judging panel that sought to prevent her from facing her rival, Samuel Riethes, in a public contest. In writing the majority opinion of the British Committee on Dueling and Magical Contests, judge Marlon Whitworth stated that duels had become so common among wizards that many of the strongest male spell casters in Britain had been killed long since, leaving the most powerful female magic users living, healthy and 'ready to challenge all comers for their proper place in the hierarchy of conflict.' Harry pronounced the phrase several times, savoring the sound of the statement. 'Hierarchy of conflict' had a particular appeal to a boy who was supposedly fated to destroy the world's most powerful dark wizard in single combat.

There were other 'social semaphore' signals as well, including the way a wand was presented during the formal surrender of a commander of a wizard army, the position of a wand placed out of reach by a wizard willing to negotiate a delicate diplomatic (or sometimes even commercial) agreement, and a wand left - supposedly - unattended by a wizard seeking the hand of a magic-using member of a royal family. The surprising fact about that last convention was that - as of the writing of this book, which had been revised and reissued in a new edition during Harry's lifetime - not one member of the British royal family currently living had any trace of magical ability. The magical scholars who were also royalists insisted that this was perfectly consistent with the division of mortal responsibility between rulership, as was descended through Arthur, and advisory capacity, which was descended through Merlin. Those magical scholars who were not royalists, however, pointed out that the royal family had dispensed with magical advisors essentially from the time of the death of Arthur onward, and it was about time for magical people to get involved in the government of the wider world once again. The moderates, who stood somewhere between the other two groups, maintained that the governing of a magical society was a completely separate endeavor from the governing of muggles, and that the two functions should be clearly divided - as had been the case in Britain for over one thousand years. Harry imagined the various ways in which the wizard and muggle worlds might collide if their governments were to be combined. He remembered growing up, watching the telly with Margaret Thatcher making her pompous pronouncements. He got lost in a pleasant fantasy in which Maggie spent days on end kicking Cornelius Fudge's arse. Realizing he was wasting time, he returned to the text, which had stories of great feasts in which all wizards in attendance placed their wands in the center of the table as a show of trust in their host. As might have been expected, the custom came to a sudden end when one of those hosts used the opportunity to slaughter his guests. It had happened several hundred years ago, but Harry could see why present-day wizards still tended to hold on to their wands no matter where they might be.

He took more notes, he memorized names and dates, and by the end of the evening, he thought he might have enough to satisfy even Snape. That being the case, he had the chance to progress to the next book in the stack, although he promised himself that he would review his presentation the next night, just to be sure he had it all firmly in mind. Thus it was that Harry - finally - began to learn the particulars of living in the formal society of wizards to which he had been born, and in which he was such a famous person.

--- --- ---

Throughout all of Wednesday, Harry had minimal contact with Professor Sprout. She gave him some very general directions, and set him to work, leaving him alone for most of the day. When it was time to leave work that evening, Harry saw that the Professor had a large canvas bag and several boxes packed with belongings. She called him over to her and indicated the stack of packed items. "Please look at these, Mister Potter," she said, very formally.

"They're boxes. Uh... and a bag," Harry replied uncertainly.

"That they are. Very good. Now, please take a look within them."

Hesitantly, Harry pulled the edges of the canvas bag open, then took a quick look at the contents of the boxes. There were pictures, most of which included Professor Sprout along with some other people Harry didn't recognize. There were some gloves, two pairs of Wellington boots and a few hand tools. Harry shrugged and looked up at the professor questioningly.

"I want to make sure that on each day as I leave, someone can be my witness," she explained. "I am not sure what Alb... the Headmaster has in mind - or if he even has a mi..." with a visible effort, she stopped herself from completing the statement. "I simply want someone to be able to testify that I am not robbing the school. Now that you have observed what I am taking with me, you will be able to bear witness on my behalf. Thank you, Mister Potter. Once I am gone, you are free for the rest of the evening. I will see you in the morning."

With a great effort, she gathered all of the packed boxes into her arms and hung the bag from one wrist. "Goodbye," she said, and slowly began to walk away. Harry dashed to open the greenhouse door for her. "Thank you," she said as she passed him.

"Can I carry anything for you?" Harry asked, watching her struggle with her burdens, wondering why she didn't simply levitate the items, or shrink them to pocket size.

"No, thank you," she replied and walked away. He watched her go until she disappeared around the first bend of the Hogsmeade path. He thought he could hear the bang as she apparated away. Feeling rather depressed, he went to his room and studied, but he was repeatedly distracted as he thought of Professor Sprout taking her bulky, heavy, but ultimately meagre possessions away from the school at which she had worked for so many years.

On Thursday night, after another long but dull day at work, Harry presented himself at the doorway to the Potions classroom. Professor Snape was within, grinding more of the endless series of ingredients which his work required. He looked up silently, waiting for his visitor to speak first. "Professor?" Harry began, and waited until he saw a slight nod in reply. "I have come to present my first book report." He stood waiting for Snape to respond.

The potions professor studied the boy carefully for a few seconds - just long enough to build the tension a bit - before relenting. "Well done, Mister Potter. I had wondered whether I would be required to seek you out for this evening's exercise. I am glad that you presented yourself as you should. Come in. Stand there." He pointed to a place directly before the workbench at which he stood. He waited for Harry to get there and stand quietly before asking. "Well? Tell me what you have read."

"The first book from the assigned material that I read was 'Social Semaphore,'"

Snape pressed his lips together in disapproval. "The thinnest of the lot. I might have known."

"That is true, Sir," Harry volunteered. "But the reason I chose that particular volume was that it had the most immediate significance to my recent experience. You see..." He tried to formulate an explanation that would allow him to keep Remus - and his own embarrassment - out of the conversation. There was no way that any of the alternatives he could think of would have made any sense, however, so he plunged on with his story. "Several nights ago, I placed my wand on the dining table so that it formed a cross with Remus' wand. He explained what the signal meant."

"Did he?" Snape drawled, eyes narrowed.

"Yes, Sir. I was very embarrassed. I apologized repeatedly."

"Hmph." Snape muffled his single bark of laughter so that it was nearly unidentifiable as a sound of mirth. "I hardly think you needed to apologize so thoroughly as you may have believed."

"Perhaps not, Sir," Harry replied evenly, refusing to let on that he was aware of what Snape meant. "However, I did realize that I needed to know more about certain customs than I had ever had the opportunity to learn."

"And did you find out anything useful?"

"Oh, yes!" Harry said, eyes shining as he launched into his explanation. "The history of dueling was great. And the way you show that you're serious about making a contract, and the similarities between diplomatic and commercial procedure and..." He caught himself as he saw Snape's eyes go wide. But rather than shouting, scolding or sneering, the professor encouraged the boy to continue.

"Take the first item first. We may examine that, then move on. Dueling. The specific reference was to the opening salute, I believe."

Harry explained the differences between the salutes given in duels of the thirteen hundreds and duels as fought in the present day. He touched on exclusively modern innovations, such as competition dueling, fought as a sport (with unforgivable curses strictly prohibited), and ancient customs such as duels with no quarter, invariably fought to the death. Once Snape was sure that the boy had learned that portion of the subject, he allowed Harry to move on to less adventurous topics: formal contracts and property transfers. In the midst of his discussion of the protocols for royal marriage proposals, Harry stopped and asked his teacher very seriously, "Professor... if I may ask: Are you a royalist, a moderate or a reformist?"

Snape's face clouded, but just as he was about to deliver a scathing rejoinder, he stopped to reconsider. Under different circumstances such a question would be inappropriate, offensive, and deserving of chastisement. But in this particular case, Harry had asked a question that showed that he was thinking of exactly the kinds of things Snape was trying to teach him. He took a moment to review what he was about to say, and to make sure that his answer would contain nothing that would raise the suspicions of Dumbledore - who was almost certainly eavesdropping on this conversation. Then he began to try to explain his beliefs about politics for the benefit of the boy who would most likely have the greatest impact on wizard politics of any single person of this generation.

"I'm certainly not a royalist," Snape said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. What was clearly obvious to an experienced adult would not necessarily be so to a young boy, and Snape wanted to make certain that what he intended to express sincerely was not taken ironically. "So far as I am concerned, Arthur himself is completely overrated. That king would not have even been conceived if Merlin had not arranged for his parents' tryst to occur, and even though the great wizard raised the boy, and guided him into manhood, and advised him during his entire life, all that Arthur was ever able to accomplish was to gather some skilled fighters around him, and act in the capacity of a warlord - which is all most kings have ever been able to do. Despite Arthur's much-vaunted greatness, Britain was nevertheless conquered by Rome in his own time, and by the Normans afterward, and by the Vikings whenever they felt like it. So Arthur's championing of the cause of the 'Britons' was futile at best. I believe kings are next to useless. I am not a royalist in the least.

"However, the so-called reformists are even more misguided. They imagine that muggles could, first of all, stand the psychic shock of realizing that there have been magic-using people living alongside of them for thousands of years, totally unknown to their science and philosophy. We are longer-lived than muggles, and generally healthier. We suffer fewer mental breakdowns, we tend to be stronger... how could they accept us as anything but monsters, a threat to their very existence? I do not believe that muggles should be allowed to function completely without supervision. I think there are many things of which muggles are capable that are so destructive they must not be allowed. So I believe that the wizard community should keep an eye on the muggles, and curtail their worst tendencies, not try to combine our very separate governments and societies. I am not a reformist.

"Which seems to leave only one choice. But the very term, 'Moderate' goes against much of what I believe to be necessary for our kind - our magic-using people - to survive. Since you have worked with the Order of the Phoenix, you know of my connection to Voldemort. You should also know that I once found many of his ideals very appealing. I believe you might be able to see how I would embrace any set of disciplines that refuses to accept mediocrity, that strives for excellence in every aspect of life, which holds laziness and incompetence in contempt, and values achievement and accomplishment above the warmer, fuzzier values such as comfort, tolerance and forgiveness. I am not a moderate, then, Mister Potter. I believe myself to be - despite my opposition to Voldemort and my dedication to Hogwarts - a radical. Let us put it this way: Moderates support Fudge. I have nothing but contempt for the man and his entire organization."

Harry gazed wide-eyed at Snape. Slowly, he realized that - by totally fortuitous chance - he had been given the opportunity to work with a truly driven individual. The professor that had once inspired only fear and hatred had proven to be an impassioned idealist, one with the perfect outlook to help Harry himself achieve the things that would be necessary to reach his full potential. It would be a challenge to overcome the resistance of Dumbledore, the petty interference of the Ministry, and the apathy of most wizards. But somehow, they would get it done. "Thank you, Sir. I appreciate your candor," Harry said sincerely. As he continued his book report, Snape studied him closely, wondering just how much the boy might one day accomplish.

--- --- ---

Friday was a day of cleaning, tidying and straightening in the Hogwarts greenhouses. The operation seemed incongruous to Harry - how does one go about cleaning that which is grown in dirt? But halfway through the morning, both Professor Sprout and her helper had fallen into an efficient rhythm, and each pot in the wake of their progress had a spotless exterior, a well-watered plant within, and an easily-read label prominently displayed. Harry could see what was required of him as he proceeded, and he and the Professor worked together swiftly, with an easy, confident determination.

As Harry worked his way to the end of one of the benches, he saw Professor Snape leaving the castle and hurrying toward the nearest apparation point. Harry wondered what the Professor had been summoned for this time, and was surprised to realize that he was worried about the outcome of Snape's meeting. The delicate balance of double-agency that the potions professor had maintained for so long could not have been easy. Over the past couple of weeks, Harry had learned first-hand how challenging intrigue could be. Simply keeping his own conversations within the castle suitably ambiguous and neutral-sounding to prevent Dumbledore from becoming suspicious of him had been difficult enough. Balancing the paranoid hatred of two powerful long-time enemies must have called for a level of resourcefulness Harry could barely imagine. Even more demanding, Snape was not merely spying for profit - he had shown himself to be an idealist, trying to find a way to remake the world into something better than it had ever been. Hardly believing that he could feel this way, Harry hoped that Snape would be returning soon - and safely.

Lunch with Remus was a subdued, quiet meeting between the two friends. Lupin had no idea why Snape had been called, but he was certain that Severus had been surprised by the timing of the summons. The werewolf was concerned for the potions professor's safety as well, and he kept reviewing those times during which he and Snape had been in public together, often with Harry in tow. Had they appeared suspicious in any way? If they had been observed by one of Voldemort's loyal followers, would Snape have appeared to be betraying the Dark Lord's cause? There was no way to tell.

After lunch, when one greenhouse was completely straightened and ready for presentation, and Sprout and Harry had worked their way through most of the second, the professor called the boy to her. "You have done a good job today, Harry," she told him with a smile. "And with so little left to do between today and the arrival of your new professor, I'm going to be taking the weekend off of work for the first time since I took this job. That means that you will have tomorrow and Sunday to spend as you wish."

Harry was so surprised he had no idea what to say. Just to make sure he understood correctly, he stammered, "Don't... um... I need to... water or something?"

Professor Sprout sighed. "One of the hardest lessons to teach novice Herbologists," she said wistfully, "is that there is such a thing as overwatering. And many of the varieties we keep here actually prefer their soil to be rather dry. For a very few of the more persnickety plants, like that flat of hyperclover in the first building, a simple spell left on a watering can next to the flat will insure that they do not go thirsty. And I will check every plant before I leave tonight to make sure no one was neglected. We should be able to make this place presentable in about a half day on Monday, so we should be able to start a little bit late. Don't show up before eight in the morning, and if we work quickly, lunch should mark the end of the working day. I will be here Tuesday, to turn the Department over to..."

Harry searched Professor Sprout's face as she fell silent. She seemed to be staring at one particular pot, and Harry looked at that one to see if he could tell what his teacher was so upset about. If there was anything special about that pot, or the plant within it, Harry couldn't tell what that might have been. When Harry looked back at her, Professor Sprout spoke again, and her voice sounded tired... and bitter. "You are going to be here... alone, except for your watcher, Mister Lupin, thank God for him... with a man named Aaron Sepal. I know, I know - you've met him, you know his name, you know he is a member of Voldemort's Death Eaters, and you know I disapprove of him, and his organization, and his leader, and of our own Headmaster's decision to hire him. But please, Harry, listen to me. I do believe he is dangerous, especially to you. You have been a curse to Voldemort since you were born. You ruined him when you were just a baby. You have thwarted his progress several times since you have come to Hogwarts. To Voldemort, it would be worth the loss of more than one follower to eliminate you. Death Eaters have very strong, very volatile political beliefs. I believe that Aaron Sepal would attack you, even if that action meant his own death, if he believed that by doing so, he could kill you. So beware of him. Keep Mister Lupin close to you at all times. Do not leave your back exposed. And Harry... whatever you and Professor Snape are planning - be careful."

Harry's eyes went wide as he pulled back from the Herbology professor in shock. "Oh, don't be so dramatic," Professor Sprout laughed, resting her hands on her hips and shaking her head. "You don't think you could hide the fact that there is... something going on... from me, did you? Years of being a teacher here, at Hogwarts, where 'eyes in the back of her head' is a job prerequisite have made me particularly sensitive to any sort of sneaking around - whether on the part of students, guests, or other teachers." Looking at Harry's stricken expression, she laughed again. "Oh, please, Mister Potter... I'm not saying you're up to no good. I'm merely telling you to be careful. And that's good advice anytime. But now, with a known Death Eater joining the staff, it's better advice than ever. Come on, now, one more row of benches to go, and then we'll take our well-deserved weekend, right? Back to it, now."

Harry returned to his job, glad for the mechanical repetition of wiping pots, cleaning labels and placing those labels where they were clearly readable. He had thought that he was being so discreet. Keeping even the simplest plan secret was obviously much more difficult than he had thought. For the rest of the workday, he worried about Snape, called away mysteriously; he worried about Neville, about to try to pull off a very risky plan; and he worried about himself, already the target of one attack this summer on campus, now scheduled to work alongside a known Death Eater for the remainder of the term break.

When work was over, Professor Sprout once again made a minor production of taking her leave, making sure that Harry acknowledged that she carried no school property away with her. As he had done on Wednesday, he watched her walk off campus to apparate away, and he wondered at the strength of the emotions that simple leave-taking awoke within him. Was he changed significantly from the boy he had been only a few months ago? He didn't think so. And yet, although Professor Sprout had never been his favorite teacher, he felt deeply moved at her plight. She had quit her job all on her own, he had to admit. But she had done so on principle, which - thankfully - she had made very clear to him the day after she had given her notice. It was not simply that she was frustrated by the lack of quality in her summer help; she had quit because of strong differences with the Headmaster that showed no signs of being possible to reconcile. He wondered if Dumbledore had hired Aaron Sepal in part to punish the departing Herbology professor. With what Harry had seen recently, it would have made no less sense than much of what Dumbledore had done. But how much sense did Harry make to himself, these days? Distrusting Dumbledore was just the beginning. Was he really worried about the safety of Severus Snape? Was he really going to take lessons in society living from Narcissa Malfoy? Was he really planning to usurp control of the government of the entire nation, and make being 'The Boy Who Lived' his life's work?

Well, more accurately, his working title would be more like 'The Boy Who Lived To Become The Man Who Defeated His Lifelong Enemy And Everyone Else Besides In Order To Run The Whole Country.' But that was too long to be included in a snappy campaign slogan.

Thinking of which, he wondered: if he actually did all of the things that Remus and Snape had suggested he might be able to do, would he ever have to stand for re-election? Or would he become some sort of dictator, a 'President for Life,' has had happened in some other countries? The decision should have been up to him, ideally. But he had the distinct impression that would not be the case, and someone else would decide whether he returned the nation to any kind of democratic process, or whether he continued to rule with an iron fist.

Thinking of these things, he stood there long after the sound of Pomona Sprout apparating away had resounded across the wide lawns of Hogwarts. As he was about to turn back toward the castle, he saw Snape walking toward the entrance from the apparation point. "Professor!" He shouted, running to meet the man. "You're..." suddenly, he realized that shouting his relief at the safety of the potions professor was not the most discrete thing he could do. "... back," he finished lamely.

Severus stared disbelievingly at the boy running toward him with such a joyful expression. He clearly saw the boy catch himself, and could practically see his mind's wheels turning as he searched for a way to finish his exuberant greeting without betraying any confidences. Most surprisingly, the boy's apparent happiness and relief at seeing him seemed genuine. Wondering over that, Snape found it easiest to slip into his familiar sarcastic character to reply. "Extremely observant of you, Mister Potter. I would not have been certain of my own location had you not so precisely pointed it out to me."

"Thank you, Sir," Harry replied, so cheerfully that Snape wondered whether the boy had missed his sarcasm entirely. Then he saw Harry's expression and realized that Potter was playing with him! Harry had responded to Snape's acerbic comment as though it had been real praise precisely because he knew that it wasn't... and, more subtly, the boy seemed to be saying that he realized to what extent Severus' unrelenting sarcasm was put on in order to help facilitate his double life as a spy. In Snape's carefully-guarded heart, the tiniest hope began to grow that - just perhaps - his ambitious plans involving this boy may have some slim chance of actually succeeding.

"I have both days of this weekend off, Sir," Harry continued exuberantly. "Professor Sprout won't be on campus, so she told me to stay away from the Herbology Department - for the good of the plants." Snape, already surprised, was astounded. Harry Potter, heaping sarcasm on himself? And doing so with an innocent-faced smile? What would have been unbelievable mere days ago now seemed as though it might well be the evidence of a growing sophistication in the boy - one for which Snape believed he could take some credit. It was a bare beginning, baby steps toward the hoped-for level of maturity that Potter would need to achieve, and achieve quickly, for his own good - but that it had begun at all was inspiring.

"And how do you intend to spend this unexpected windfall of freedom?" Snape was so busy studying the newly manifested differences in the boy before him that he nearly forgot to sneer.

Harry shrugged. "Study, of course, if nothing else presents itself. But I thought you might have some suggestions for me."

'It is a good thing I have a strong heart,' Snape mused. 'A weaker man might have died of shock.' To Harry, he said, "I do have something in mind, though tomorrow will be the earliest possible time during which we might take advantage of the opportunity. In fact, now that you remind me, I should go check on the availability of that particular educational opportunity. For tonight, I suggest you do some reading. I will be expecting your next book report sometime during this weekend. Go on, get to it. I will be busy arranging a unique weekend experience for you." He turned and walked back toward the apparation point. Harry, burning with curiosity about what Snape had been involved with that day, had to content himself with returning to the castle. He met Remus halfway there, and could immediately tell that the man was relieved that Snape had returned alive and apparently safe. He could also tell that the werewolf had been able to hear the entire conversation. "That's the way to keep him on his toes," Remus teased. "Fight sarcasm with sarcasm - the conversational weapon of choice among all disgruntled wits. But what's this about a unique opportunity?" Harry shrugged, and Remus smiled reassuringly. "Well, knowing Severus, whatever it is will certainly be worth your while."

Harry thought of all of the other things that Snape had found to be worth his while and groaned.

He did spend the evening studying, though. He made it through nearly all of 'Your Personal Hair Story,' and while he wasn't about to begin toying with the implements tucked into the book's cover, he did have quite a bit more respect for the complex meanings which were... or at least, which had been, in more formal times, up to several decades ago... telegraphed by the way wizards wore their hair.

He found that his own hair, that he had previously thought to be simply untamable, fortuitously fell into a distinct, and appropriate, category. There was a formal name for the style, in Latin, but Harry remembered the informal English term for it, 'Shock.' It was, ironically enough, said to be appropriate for a child mourning the loss of both parents. So long as he remained in school, Harry would be considered still a child, and thus still entitled to wear his hair in its natural state. However, since he was his parents' oldest child, and the heir to their family fortune, whenever he decided he was ready to begin taking on his adult responsibilities - or when he graduated seventh year of school, whichever came first - he would be expected to grow his hair long, and wear it straight, either streaming back freely from his scalp, or pulled back and tied. Albus Dumbledore was an oldest child. So was Severus Snape. Harry had never thought of their hairstyles in a larger context before, instead always assuming that those men had chosen their appearance on purely aesthetic grounds. But each of them was actually following a meticulously prescribed formula. The very wildness and extreme length of Dumbledore's hair and beard testified to his many years of age, of magical experience, and of family responsibility.

The book's last section, near the beginning of which Harry had to put the volume down and go to sleep, were about the most recent trends in wizard society, including the abandonment of most of the hair conventions by many modern wizards. Harry thought he could see the Weasley family's attitudes described - and soundly rejected by the author - in the overview of those chapters. Harry tried to picture Arthur Weasley with long hair and a full beard. His best attempts yielded only cartoonish images. And by rights, even though his parents were still alive, Bill Weasley should be entitled to wear his hair very long... which he did, Harry realized. Bill had always kept his hair pulled back in a severe pony tail whenever Harry had seen him, but the young man did have hair that was as extremely long as it was extremely red. Harry wondered if Bill would grow a full beard once his father died. If he did, he would look like a Viking adventurer, Harry thought: Bill the Red, Terror of the Seas. Harry began to see why the formal hair presentations had begun to fall out of fashion in recent times. Still, it was interesting to wonder: had his own hair simply followed its naturally unruly path as it would have no matter what had happened to his parents? Or had someone cast a charm on it, keeping it properly "Shock"-ish so that he would appear to be appropriately tressed as he was finally presented to wizard society when he first attended Hogwarts? And, if that were true... Could it be reversed? Harry thought it might be nice to have some control over the unruly mop for once in his life.

He fell asleep thinking happily of being able to sleep in for the first time since school let out.

Instead, he awoke early, to Hedwig pecking at him. The bird had a note tied to her leg, and seemed impatient to be relieved of the burden, light though it was. In fact, the note was only a single scrap of parchment, on which Professor Snape had written:

'_Your unique educational opportunity begins at 10 a.m._

_Please join Mister Lupin and me at the castle's front_

_entrance no later than 9:15. (A.M., Mister Potter.)_

_- S. Snape_

Groggily, Harry realized that, if this had been a workday, he would have been in the greenhouse already. But eight o'clock was hardly 'sleeping in' by his standards. His eyes still feeling sticky, he stumbled off to the bath.

Several minutes ahead of his note-imposed deadline, Harry was at the castle door, only to find Snape and Remus already waiting for him. With no more than a brief 'Good morning' from each, the three strode swiftly across the lawns, heading toward the Hogsmeade pathway.

"Uh... what are..." Harry began, but was silenced by a glare from Snape, and a look from Remus that reminded him that he should know better than to discuss anything significant on school grounds. The walk off of campus and the swift apparation were completed in silence. Harry was ready to be surprised at some unfamiliar destination. Instead, he found himself standing in a very familiar spot - the broad, uncrowded floor of the Weasley twins' warehouse. His first reaction was one of near panic. Was Ginny there? He realized that such a response was hardly appropriate for a heroic conqueror-to-be, then wondered exactly what kind of 'educational experience' he was scheduled to have that day. Could it involve Ginny? Did these people expect him to learn something about sex in such a cold manner? 'Sexual experience by appointment?' He wondered whether Ginny would be offended, or take the opportunity as it was offered. He was so distracted, he hardly noticed the twins' entrance, George carrying a tray of glasses, Fred pushing a cart bearing a large pitcher, and an ice bucket.

"Orange juice for the early-morning crowd," Fred crowed.

"Except for the adults in attendance - for us, mimosas," George amended.

"Actually, I thought it might be appropriate for Harry to have just a touch of the bubbly as well," Fred suggested, eyebrows raised as he awaited Snape's and Remus' reaction.

Snape merely pressed his lips together into a thin line, but Remus chuckled and said, "I'm not sure. Harry? Have you ever had an alcoholic beverage?"

Harry felt all eyes turn toward him, and he quailed before the attention. He was embarrassed to admit both his experiences with alcohol and his general inexperience with the primary social lubricant of muggle life. "Uh... yes..." he said hesitantly, then realized that more explanation was called for. "I... um.... stole a pint of stout from my uncle's collection in the refrigerator. My aunt and uncle had just gone to the store, and had put some new bottles in, so I thought they might not miss it. They didn't - for almost a week. Then, they nearly went crazy trying to figure out when the missing bottle had been drunk. My uncle Vernon ended up lecturing Dudley for almost an hour on the dangers of unsupervised underage drinking. My cousin was totally baffled by all of that. I drank some cooking sherry another time. And once, when my aunt and uncle had a glass of wine each, but didn't finish the bottle, I finished it for them when I took out the trash. That was the best, I guess. But that's about all the alcohol I have ever had." By the time he finished his story, his face was bright red, and he couldn't stand to meet anyone's eyes.

"Did you get sick?" Remus asked. Harry shook his head. "Even when you drank the cooking sherry?" Remus persisted. Harry looked up at him to find the man looked concerned rather than mocking.

"No, I didn't get sick. But the stout was too... uh.... stout, I guess you'd say. Like trying to drink bread. And the sherry was... I don't know.... but after drinking that stuff, I couldn't understand why anyone would ever want to develop a taste for drinking wine. The real wine was a lot better."

"But you've never had champagne?" Remus asked, to make sure the point was perfectly clear.

"No."

"Fred... George... Let's pour a little bit of champagne first, before we make anything else out of it. I propose a toast: To Harry, and his introduction to a wider world."

By the time Remus' toast was complete, Fred and George had passed out glasses to everyone, and were ready to drink. Each adult had a generous amount of champagne, while Harry had gotten only a finger's depth. But everyone - even Snape - raised his glass Harry's way and waited for him to raise his own. When he did, they all drank, so Harry followed suit. And was pleasantly surprised. The fizzing wine was nothing like the sour cooking sherry, and was much more pleasant than the leftover wine he had recovered from his relatives' dinner. The bubbles were much livelier than those in stout, and the champagne had a tart, refreshing taste along with its alcoholic bite. "That's really... good," Harry said, searching the others' faces to see whether they thought he was being foolish. Apparently, they all believed that it was good, as well, and Fred and George busied themselves making the orange juice and champagne drinks they called 'mimosas.' Harry noticed that George put only the tiniest amount of champagne into each drink, but when the first round had been mixed and distributed, he announced, "Back for another bottle. The orange juice seems to be holding up just fine." And he disappeared into the office area.

Harry was thirsty, and drank his first orange juice rather quickly. There had been only a touch of champagne added, so he felt confident asking for a refill as quickly as he did. He wondered whether he would be allowed any more of the champagne, and seriously doubted it, but when George came back with the bottle already open, he splashed a slightly more generous helping of the fizzing wine into Harry's glass of juice.

"Today," Snape announced, apparently exclusively for Harry's benefit, since the rest of those in attendance seemed to be well informed already, "the Weasley twins have generously offered to sacrifice some of their most valuable goods for our exercises. As experienced beaters, I suppose this suggestion was inevitable, and it was only a matter of time before our hosts recalled what a genuine threat can be posed by such innocuous playthings. I am speaking, of course, of bludgers."

Snape smiled wickedly and Harry felt a sudden chill. Bludgers really were dangerous. And fast. And they often seemed to have a mind of their own once they were aloft, out of the bindings in which they were kept between games. They were at the heart of that portion of quiddich that consisted of airborne mayhem. As beaters, Fred and George had sent the heavy balls rocketing at many opponents, knocking some of them from their brooms, and occasionally causing injuries that required the immediate attention of a mediwitch. Harry had learned a great deal of respect for bludgers - mostly during practice. He had never suffered the game-ending kind of impacts that some players had received from the flying menaces. But then again, during games, he had been on his broom. And he had enjoyed the protection of a pair of beaters. In his first seasons, those protectors had been Fred and George themselves. His mouth was suddenly dry. He drained his glass and immediately held it out for a refill. George had his drink back in his hand in seconds. Harry tried to put on his bravest face as he asked, "What do you plan to do with bludgers?"

"That's the beauty of the plan," George bragged.

"It's simplicity itself," Fred agreed.

"You will notice that our stock has been shoved back against the walls."

"Which leaves a great deal of open space here in the middle."

"We put you here."

"And release them."

Harry heard something suspicious in Fred's last statement. "How many of them," he demanded.

"That's the other beautiful thing," Fred rhapsodized.

"You won't know," George winked and stood there, smiling next to his smiling brother, who added, "Until you've dealt with them all."

Harry was more than a little annoyed. "What am I supposed to do?"

"We won't know," George said.

"Until you do it," Fred added.

Harry drained his glass and Fred pushed a replacement into his hand even as he took the empty one away. "Well, how will I know when I have dealt with them all?" Harry protested, then took another long pull on his refilled glass.

"That's the real challenge," George said seriously.

"We don't doubt that you can deal with a room full of bludgers," Fred assured Harry.

"It's whether you can deal with the unexpected bludger that flies at your back once you have the others under control," George continued soothingly.

"Roomful?" Harry repeated. "Room... Full? How many of these things do you have?"

"Ah, ah," George said, shaking a finger like a schoolmarm offering a warning to a preschooler. "That would be giving it away. The surprise is really what's at the heart of this particular game." Harry drained his glass and George took it as Fred pressed a refill into Harry's hand. "All right, gentlemen, George announced. "Drink up. We have to move on to business, here. Harry, we will observe from the relative safety of our office. That is, except for Fred here, who will be releasing the bludgers from our..." He made a grand gesture toward one end of the warehouse as Fred pulled a cord, dragging a canvas dropcloth off of the structure it had been concealing. The revealed construction was metallic, with a circular window in the side that faced out into the warehouse. It looked just big enough for one person to crouch in - uncomfortably. "...Bludger Blind!" George concluded, turning to accept applause. Since there was none forthcoming, he shrugged and pushed the mimosa cart away toward the office. "We'll be watching," he called back to Harry over his shoulder. "Don't go too easy on him, Fred," he shouted to his brother, who was struggling to push himself through a tiny door set into the side of the blind that faced the wall.

In seconds, Harry was alone, facing a bludger-sized window in the side of a metallic box. He drew his wand. He was tense, excited and light headed. He felt reckless. He felt like roaring out a challenge to the bludger keeper in his cowardly metal box. He felt... different. With a start of recognition, he remembered the feeling that had come over him on two of the occasions he had drunk alcohol. (The sherry had done nothing for him whatsoever.) But whereas the leftover wine, and even the whole pint of stout had given him a tiny suggestion of this feeling, the champagne in his mimosas had given him a huge helping of it. He was confident... even as he realized that, given his situation, he was feeling overconfident. He wanted to change the rules of the game, to attack first, to smash that stupid bludger blind to smithereens... even though he knew that this exercise had been set up at some trouble and expense to help him. He knew what this was called, even though he had never been in this particular condition before. He was drunk. He took a deep breath. He flexed his muscles. He started to bellow out a challenge. He dropped to the ground before he really knew what he was doing. Something had warned him, some sixth sense... or maybe he had merely heard the bludger whistling toward him from behind and had recognized the sound from quiddich games. Whichever it had been, Harry had no sooner hit the floor than a bludger flew swiftly through the space in which he had been standing only a moment before.

What was worse, Harry had seen no bludgers released from the blind. He was under attack from an unknown direction, and the first shot had already been fired. He twisted on the ground, not wanting to be face-down while the action was taking place above him. He freed his wand and watched for approaching bludgers.

He didn't have long to wait. Two of the heavy projectiles appeared from either side. He threw his arms wide, not so much casting a spell as grunting hard as though lifting a heavy weight. The bludgers exploded in mid-air. But as they were already aimed at him, the burning ash that they had become landed on his face and arms, hurting, burning and making him bellow in rage and pain. From his nearly helpless supine position, he leapt into the air, landing on his feet and twisting quickly to scan all directions for any approaching threats. That was a more athletic feat than the boy should have been capable of, and it raised some questions in the office observation area.

The room was darkened, with a glowing rectangle floating in mid-air, in which the image of Harry appeared. As he made his gymnastic kip-up from flat on his back to standing on his toes, Remus asked the twins, "did you give him anything... extra before we began this test?"

George, deliberately casual, said, "Oh. Didn't I tell you? The champagne we added to the mimosas was extra. The orange juice was already spiked."

A loud explosion rocked the warehouse as Harry destroyed a trio of bludgers that had been sent at him from three different directions at once. Remus squinted at the glowing image of Harry's progress and shouted," Fred isn't sending those things! They aren't coming from the blind at all!"

"No," George admitted easily. "The blind is nothing but a covering over the stairway to the lower floor. Fred is nowhere near there." George had expected Snape to say something - possibly even to demand that the whole experiment be called off. But it was Remus who shouted, his voice echoing off of the walls of the tiny office.

"You have no idea who it is you have gotten drunk and threatened out there!"

"Yes, we do," George said calmingly. "He's our teammate, our classmate, our old chum..."

A heavy shock made the entire warehouse rock sickeningly from side to side. A trio of explosions sounded through the office walls as Harry destroyed three more bludgers.

"No, you don't," Remus insisted. "He makes Albus Dumbledore look like a cheapassed muggle stage magician. He..." Something strange had happened. Remus knew he was in the midst of shouting, but no sound was coming from his lips. He knew he was gesturing toward the observation panel that George had conjured, but his hand wasn't moving. He was dimly aware that quite a lot of time was passing in the wider world, but for him, personally, nothing was happening at all.

Harry had destroyed three bludgers with a gesture, and was screaming curses at random. He didn't even know what he was saying, except that it was loud, and violent, and extremely obscene. He had made a decision, he wanted everyone to know. He shouted his decision at maximum volume. This entire situation was stupid, he had decided. Even in quiddich, you only had to deal with two bludgers, and there, you had a team. Where was his team? They were hiding. What could he do about that?

Suddenly, there were four bludgers flying at him, and he decided it was time to put his foot down. This was more than enough, and he wasn't putting up with any more of it. Flinging his arms out to his sides, he shouted "Stop!" The bludgers, as he had expected, did so. Now, what to do? He could send the bludgers flying into the office. He could probably kill everyone there. He thought about that for a while. Snape? That might have been appealing a few weeks ago, but he didn't want to kill Snape any more. Remus? Disgusting. Remus was his friend, his family. No need to kill good old Remus. George? Hey! George was on his team. He thought about it really hard and look! There was George, as stiff as a statue, floating out of the office. But how had that happened? Harry looked on the ground and saw the splintered remains of the office doorway. Oh, too bad. Perhaps he would reimburse the twins for their broken door. Or, maybe, he would teach them what it meant to play games with him. Chuckling maliciously, he swung George's stiff form at one of the bludgers, as though George were his own beater bat. The bludger flew satisfyingly away from the stroke until Harry decided that it had gone far enough. The bludger stopped immediately.

George opened his eyes, one of the few voluntary actions he could still accomplish. He was quite thankful that his heart was still beating, and that his breathing continued automatically, but all of his muscles were stiff and unyielding as an old hickory stick. He had wanted to scream only a moment ago, and had been tremendously frustrated at being unable to do so. But overriding that frustration was the sheer terror of seeing and feeling himself rocketing helplessly toward a stationary bludger, apparently about to meet the heavy thing head first in what, by all rights, should have been a face-smashing impact. He had shut his eyes, tried unsuccessfully to scream, and waited for the hideous pain to begin. He thought for an instant that he could smell the heavy leather covering of the bludger right in front of his nose. Then... there had been nothing - no pain, no impact, no horrible crunching sound of his own cheekbones imploding. Had he missed? As his eyes opened, he saw the bludger flying away from him, exactly as though he had struck it nose-first. Then, inexplicably, the heavy ball came to a sudden halt. George himself floated into a new position, and George could see Harry Potter, gazing at the bludgers - and at George himself - floating in mid-air. Harry had the terrible, ignorant, absolutely nonempathetic look of an infant. George began to hope, then to wish, and finally to pray fervently that Harry had not been the sort of child who had torn the wings off of flies.

There was something unfair about this, Harry reflected. George was joining in the fun, but where was Fred? Ah! There he was, on the lower story, the basement of the warehouse. Harry swept away the silly metal construction that had pretended to be the 'bludger blind' and threw open the trap door that covered the stairway. Oops. Too hard. The trap door would never function as a door again. Well, what good was that? With a thought, Harry tore the thing from its hinges and sent it flying against the far wall. He reached down through the opening, feeling with his mind for the presence he knew had to be there. It was frustrating because he couldn't see. Instead, he had a crummy sort of echolocation, a cheap kind of radar, and an excellent mental sense. He found Fred's mind, in a sort of panic, trying to hide behind a big stack of crates. Stupid boy.

'How could a big stack of crates keep me from seeing you?' Harry asked silently. He was about to apologize for asking questions that his friends could not hear when he realized that, somehow, Fred had heard, and was trying to answer. Unfortunately, Fred's fear added so much distortion to his thoughts that he was unintelligible. Harry lifted him out of the basement and up to a bludger.

Like his brother before him, Fred became a customized beater bat, sending a bludger flying until Harry trapped it once again.

Like his brother, Fred experienced a moment of sheer horror as the bludger grew to eclipse everything else within his field of vision. Like his brother, he was left baffled at his own survival, then horrified at the child-like, terrible innocence in Harry's face as the boy contemplated the people hanging in front of him.

Harry was dissatisfied. Getting his friends in here to share his solution to this morning's exercise had been fun, but there was still the problem of what to do with the floating bludgers. He now held four of them suspended in the air, and to Harry, that was a clumsy, inelegant number. Three might have been all right, but now that there were four, there had to be more, to make a nicely balanced collection. He held the oddly immobile Fred and George up in front of him and silently inquired, "How many more?" There was no immediate answer, so he shook them both slightly. When the whites of their eyes turned red, he thought he may have shaken them enough. "How many more?" he thought at them once again.

"Seven!" Both twins screamed mentally, picturing the word 'seven,' the numeral 'seven' and pairs of dice showing pips that totalled 'seven.'

"Why?" Harry demanded.

"An attack of five, then two stragglers for surprise!" Both twins explained, each in his own individual way. Harry stopped to marvel at this for a moment. Both twins looked so much alike, sounded so much alike, even, it seemed, thought so much alike, that it was refreshing and very interesting to know that the two of them might really have two different ways of explaining something. But their plan was clear enough. After hitting Harry with waves of three, four and five bludgers, they would keep two in reserve to launch surprise attacks, once the exercise seemed to be over. Harry admired this for a while. He could appreciate the subtlety of having - not one - but two surprise attacks waiting after the main event was over. He noticed that Fred and George were turning blue hanging in the air in front of him, and he relaxed his hold on them just enough to let them breathe. No need in suffocating his good friends just yet, was there? Bludgers! He called. Come, bludgers! He could feel the flying obstacles straining against straps in a crate hidden within the warehouse. Carefully, he unfastened the straps, and seven more bludgers flew into the open expanse of the warehouse, where they were caught in mid-flight, as Harry contemplated them. Eleven. That was a good, balanced number, he thought. A number with which to juggle. Smiling, he set the entire set of eleven bludgers flying in a complex celtic knot pattern. Wanting to show off his work, he reached into the office and lifted out Snape and Remus, hanging them in midair next to Fred and George. Things were almost right, Harry thought. The bludgers were flying beautifully, and his friends were here to see it. But something was wrong. Something was missing. That was it! No one was dancing. "Dance!" Harry bellowed out loud, and stepped into the air until he was at the same level as his friends. "Oh, sorry," he said apologetically. "No music." He concentrated on making the air vibrate rhythmically.

Later, Remus was to thank all that was holy that Harry Potter had never decided to become a musician. The Boy Who Lived could easily have held the entire world hostage to his performances, and those performances - if they were anything like the spontaneous dance music Harry conjured in the Weasley's warehouse - would have been sufficiently horrible to drive people to kill themselves rather than be subjected to one. Remus had no choice. Held in stasis, he could only float in midair and listen as Harry created music for himself to dance to. Much later, Remus would read reports of clocks stopping for miles around the greater London area, and of an earthquake that seemed to come from nowhere, and vanish without any reasonable explanation from geologists. Remus felt sorry for the earth scientists. There was no way to explain the sudden release of wild magic by an individual who was, himself, a force of nature.

Harry invited his friends to dance, and when they did not respond, he made them dance, with steps he imagined on the spot. Snape, he thought, was a particularly elegant dancer, so long and lean. His nose was as elegant as a limb of any other dancer. If 'line' was important to the eye of the choreographer, then a skillful choreographer would have much for Snape's nose to do in any serious ballet. Remus was a natural male lead, strong and supple without being musclebound or overly bulky. Remus flew so effortlessly that Harry kept interrupting his own dance to watch. Fred and George were the clowns. Well, what had they expected? They had practically begged for the clown roles from their earliest days to the present. When the dance was over, Harry let the music fall silent, allowed the bludgers to come to a halt in front of where his friends hovered, then placed his friends carefully on the ground. "Ah, great!" He enthused. "Nothing better than this, is there?"

As soon as he had control over his voice once again, George nearly screamed, "Bludgers! Harry, Bludgers!"

Harry looked at the floating balls and sighed. "I don't think I'll be able to play quiddich again. I see how these work."

"They're loose," Fred nearly cried. "They're unfettered."

Harry laughed. "Unfettered, Fred? Have you been studying for scrabble? Oh, all right, they're gone, will that please you?" With a wave of his hand, Harry sent all eleven bludgers back to their crates, fastened the restraints around them, and slammed the lids on the cases. It wasn't until the heavy 'thumps' of the cases closing were heard on the warehouse floor that the Weasley twins relaxed.

"You know what?" Harry mused, looking around the mess of the warehouse floor, where the remains of six exploded bludgers, a fake blind, a trap door and an office door lay about. "I need some sleep. As much fun as this has been, I require a return to Hogwarts, and some time in my own bed. So I will bid you fellows good night."

Struggling to be able to speak, Remus said, "I could take you back... apparate you to the place on the path just beyond the grounds."

"No, no, no," Harry waved the offer away. "I'm not asking for favors, I was just saying goodbye. I'll take myself."

Snape's eyes widened, the twins' faces assumed expressions of horror. Remus begged, trying to move toward Harry, feeling as though he were trying to walk through molasses, "Please don't, Harry. Apparation is difficult. A mistake can disfigure you for life, or even kill you... Please."

Harry smiled indulgently at the man. "That's if you don't see," he explained patiently. "I can see. I could probably apparate right to my bedside. But I might save that until next time. This time, I'll just go right back to where we always go. 'Bye, now." With a solid 'thunk,' he was gone.

Remus was nearly frantic. "Severus, we have to follow him... make sure he's all right."

Snape turned to glare at the twins. "I will speak to you about this... later. Remus. Let's go."

The two men apparated away. Fred and George looked around at the ruin of their warehouse.

"It looks worse than it is," insisted Fred.

"We can replace the doors, and we figured to lose the bludgers, anyway," agreed George.

In silent concert, they moved quickly to check their stock. To their amazement, once they had completed their check, they found that they had lost not one single piece of merchandise to the Great Bludger Rampage, as the morning's escapade was thereafter known to them.

Remus and Severus apparated to the Hogsmeade path, and checked the surrounding area. Despite the brilliant sunshine, they could see no Harry. They ran toward the castle, and there, just entering the great front doors, was Potter, staggering but apparently whole. The two men pelted to the doorway at top speed only to find that Harry had climbed the stairs already. They dashed up the stairway to meet the stony glare of the Fat Lady.

"Do NOT even try," she said icily. "Harry is fine. He will have a hangover when he awakens, no doubt, but he told me that he had attempted his first apparation this morning. It was a complete success. He looks good, despite the rather greenish tint to his face - I would assume that was from excessive drinking with you two. Together, we have changed the password. No one will be entering this tower for the rest of the day. Good bye. Harry will see you tomorrow."

Snape reached for his wand, ready to blast the portrait, and most of the surrounding wall, into dust in order to gain entry to Gryffindor Tower. Remus laid a hand on his wrist. "Severus. The boy is fine. He passed the test. He apparated himself. He is doing better than we had expected him to be able to do. Let's allow him to rest." Grumbling, Snape allowed himself to be turned around, and together, the two men descended all the way to the dungeons. It was still early, and there was much to discuss.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

On Sunday morning, Severus Snape was sitting at his desk, failing to write. He had parchment spread before him, ink bottle securely resting in a depression made for it at the top of the writing surface, and a freshly-sharpened quill in hand. He had no shortage of topics he needed to write about. If he wasn't in the mood for class outlines, he could list items he still needed to replenish in the stores of the potions laboratory. He had made some progress on two different research efforts, and he knew he needed to turn his hastily-scribbled notes into formal papers while his work was still fresh in his mind. He needed to write, he was equipped for writing, and he was sitting in the proper place at which writing should be performed. He had been there for nearly an hour. He hadn't made a single mark on his parchment. He gently laid down his quill, and flipped the hinged top of his ink bottle closed. It was useless to try to concentrate on anything but the events of the previous morning, and he could commit none of those to parchment.

He could still almost feel the pressure that had coerced his limbs into involuntary movement as he hung mid-air in the Weasleys' warehouse. Over and over, he saw the almost infantile movements with which Harry Potter had called forth such overwhelming magical power. There was a tremendous appeal to that kind of power, Snape thought, but at this stage of his development, Harry lacked the maturity that would give his power personality and character. At this stage, Potter was like a very pretty child - all unrealized potential. And in the same way as Snape felt contempt for any teacher who would seduce an immature student, he realized that Potter was not yet ready to be put to use. The boy needed much more development before his potential could be realized. Unfortunately, some difficult challenges would arise long before Mister Potter had a chance to mature. The boy would have to rely on his adult allies then. Snape could only hope that when Harry's power did develop, he would remember those allies, and be merciful.

He looked up from his desk just as Harry appeared in the doorway. In any other circumstance, the coincidence of looking up at the very moment of a guest's arrival would be so trivial as to go unnoticed. With Potter, however, nothing could be dismissed, no matter how trivial it may seem. Had Harry somehow sent a silent signal ahead of himself? He had certainly made remarkably little noise approaching the potions class along the dungeon corridor. Harry smiled when he saw Severus looking his way, and Snape tried to read as much from that expression as possible. The boy did not seem to be smirking, nor sneering, nor did his expression seem to be evidence of Harry laughing at anyone else. He was smiling. A simple show of cheerfulness. Which, given the amount of alcohol he had ingested yesterday, was remarkable in and of itself. "Mister Potter. You have decided to rejoin the rest of the... wider world?"

To Severus' astonishment, the boy actually seemed to get the reference to Remus' toast of the previous day. His smile grew wider, but his only reply was, "Yes, Sir. I have another book report, if you would care to hear it."

Snape ignored the offer for the moment. "And you are feeling well?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You don't have a hangover?"

"No," Harry said wistfully, almost as though he missed the searing headache and debilitating nausea that frequently followed consumption of too much alcohol.

"How?" The single word was delivered with all of the authority the potions professor could muster. Mere months ago, it would have sent this boy into a frenzy of effort; a scramble to find an answer. Now, Harry simply stood there thoughtfully, trying to decide how best to explain himself.

"Sir... do you understand anaerobic glycolysis?"

Snape scowled thunderously. "What?"

Harry had the grace to look a little abashed. "It's a muggle term. It refers to biological processing of sugars without oxygen."

Severus' glare became even more threatening. "What are you on about, boy?"

"I'm simply trying to explain how I felt this morning. Anaerobic glycolysis is a term I read when I was still in muggle school. The article I read it in had a simple sort of explanation about what it meant, and why it's important. I don't understand how the process works, but that doesn't matter... that was really the author's whole point. Few people except experts who study those things actually understand how anaerobic glycolysis works... but everyone does it every time they eat food. You couldn't survive unless your body knew - somehow - how to digest what you eat. But you don't have any clue about it in your mind. It's just your body, working the way it should."

"Yes...?" Snape drawled menacingly, clearly running out of patience.

"This morning I woke up, really far too early to be awake. The sun hadn't risen yet, but I could feel that there was something inside of me... poisons... that would make me sick if I slept on and left them alone. So I decided to eliminate them. And I did. Or... my body did. All I did was sort of... uh... wish they were gone. And then I went back to sleep. And I woke up really refreshed."

"You wished away the poisonous by-products of alcohol abuse?" Snape asked disbelievingly. "Without a spell... I am guessing you did this without your wand... and without understanding what it was you were trying to affect, or how to get rid of them?"

"Yes, Sir," Harry replied seriously, without sarcasm or irony at all. "And it worked as automatically as digesting my food. I don't understand it, but it worked perfectly nonetheless."

"It is too bad that you did not develop a teachable spell from your experience. That would be a very valuable charm to know."

Harry shrugged. "I wish I could. But it was..."

"Automatic, yes. I understood that part of your explanation, at least."

"I'm sorry, Sir," Harry replied with apparent sincerity. "But I would like to discuss some of the things I have learned."

Snape was intrigued by this new attitude of Potter's. 'Discuss,' not simply 'report and be done with it.' It was yet another positive sign that this boy might yet become a capable leader, or at least a tolerable human being. If there were only time to nurture him properly... But there wasn't, so the boy would have to be pushed as well as led. "What did you want to speak of?"

"I could talk about 'Your Personal Hair Story,' but I'd rather talk about a book that isn't quite finished yet." He waited for Snape to raise an eyebrow to indicate interest before he continued. "I'd like to report on 'The Theory of Magic... by Harry James Potter.'" He stood there smiling with pride, and Snape was impressed once more with the sheer audacity of the boy.

"You told me only a few days ago that you had no concept of magical theory."

"That was before I saw some things first hand. May I tell you the main concepts on which my book is to be based?"

"Please," Snape drawled with exaggerated politeness. "Do go on."

Harry drew himself up and took a deep breath while concentrating on his opening statement. He looked as though he were about to make a speech to a huge crowd. "First of all, magic is not separate from the physical world. It is like a membrane, stretchy and elastic, that goes both beneath and through everything. That is, it underlies all of the physical phenomena that we can see, and it is included within things and events as well. Most of the time, in most of the world... the universe, I'd guess, but... pardon me." Harry blushed and cleared his throat, embarrassed at having drifted off into contemplation in the midst of his report. "In most of the world... uh... most of the time, magic is steady. It doesn't do much. Until it is disturbed by a wizard or witch. When a wizard casts a spell, the fabric of the magic stretches and causes its effects to manifest. There are natural distortions of magic. And those naturally occurring distortions may have led to the birth of the first magic-using people. They certainly led to the rise of magical creatures."

"And how did you come to that... unusual... conclusion?"

"By observing house elves," Harry responded brightly. "Once I was back in Gryffindor Tower, I could see how Remus had called them, and I ordered some food and something to drink. Well, you know that house elves are very individual. They're people, they have different personalities, different... well, they're different from one another. And when they did different magical things, like apparating or levitating trays, the magic around them was different every time. But there was one particular twist... sort of a magical signature... that - for every elf - was the same."

"So from watching some house elves, you have postulated the entire structure of the laws which regulate an entire world of magical creatures?"

"I observed centaurs as well," Harry said with a shrug. In response to Snape's skeptical look, he said, "The Tower has windows, you know. And a simple telescopy spell... well, it wasn't really very simple, because I needed to be able to see in the dark, through trees, but..."

Snape held up a hand to call for a break. "Peace - for a moment, at least. I suppose you are going to tell me that you observed centaurs, and some other magical creatures, from your tower window, and that each species exhibited something of this... species uniformity... in their magical signature. Is that, essentially, your hypothesis?"

Harry hung his head, once again flushing in embarrassment. "I guess you know all about that," he said, chastened.

"Not at all. In fact, I would be tempted to dismiss your entire description as utter rubbish and the ravings of a drunken lunatic, save for the fact that I have heard one other person describe magic in almost exactly this same way. That person was Albus Dumbledore. Which leads me to remind you." Here, Snape gave Harry a particularly penetrating look. "The Headmaster might be quite interested in what you are saying here today."

"He won't be listening," Harry replied instantly. "He doesn't want to know."

"What on Earth," Snape thundered, his eyes wide and his mouth curled into a fierce snarl, "gives you the arrogant presumption to believe that you can know the mind of the Headmaster, young man?"

"I saw it," Harry replied, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world. "Last night. Kind of late. I followed the magic directly to Professor Dumbledore, and... I saw it. He won't be listening to us today. And I know why. In fact, I know why he has done a lot of things... in regard to me, anyway." Harry looked as though he were about to cry. His face held a curious mixture of anger, hurt, and something else... resignation, perhaps? Snape studied the boy's face as it telegraphed his churning emotions. When Harry finally made his concluding statement, he had overcome his impulse to weep. His chin was thrust forward and his mouth was set. "Dumbledore wants me to win."

Snape's laughter was bitter. "To defeat his greatest enemy? Yes, I would say that he wants you to win."

Harry's defiant expression didn't change in the face of Snape's mocking laugh. "No, that's not it. How can I... Professor, I finally understood, just last night, really understood what you meant when you said that Voldemort was a weak enemy. Before last night, I thought I understood some of what you tried to explain to me... I understood it intellectually, logically, at least. But last night, I saw what you meant. Dumbledore has a kind of magic that's different from just casting spells. In front of the students he uses his wand and casts regular spells because he's a teacher, and he wants his students to be able to learn from him, so he does things they can understand. But he... himself... he has a magic within him that directly touches the fabric - the membrane - of magic that runs through the entire world. He is 'in touch' with magic more literally than I could have ever imagined. Because he uses magic directly, viscerally, the way..." Harry swallowed heavily. "The way I have been learning to do. Voldemort thinks he has that kind of magic. He thinks he's Dumbledore's equal in that respect. And when I feel the connection between us through..." Harry ran his fingers lightly over his forehead. "When I feel him through my scar, I can feel his frustration. Not just anger or hate or destructiveness - that's all his own, separate kind of sickness, and it poisons his entire life. But he's frustrated because... because he's not like Dumbledore. Or me. And last night, as I saw the magic that was in everything around me, I followed it all the way back to Dumbledore himself. And I saw..." Harry stopped and closed his eyes hard, then forced himself to open them again and continue. He was sweating, although the dungeon was very cool, almost cold. "I saw a lot of things."

"And you seem insistent upon telling me about them, so please - continue at your whim. I don't imagine I would be able to do anything to stop you, even if I were determined to do so."

Harry looked hurt and sad. He began to speak several times, only to stop before he had made a sound. Finally, he faced Snape's glare directly and very quietly said, "I am very sorry about what I did yesterday morning. I can offer no excuses, but I can give you a reason. The alcohol allowed me to feel uninhibited. And since I wanted my friends - of which you are a great and valued one - to play and have fun with me, I did... what I did... thinking I was doing it - with - you. I realize now that I was doing those things - to - you, instead. I was wrong, and I apologize." He met Snape's eyes for a long moment, waiting for any word from the man. None was forthcoming. "I hope you will accept my apology. Not to forgive me. But to acknowledge that I realize that what I did was wrong, and that I am very, very sorry for it."

Snape thought a long while before saying anything. During that time, Harry did not quail, did not turn away, did not try to escape. He stood, letting Snape study him. He waited for his answer with surprising equanimity for a boy of his age. After quite some time, Snape slowly nodded. "I am impressed. Your apology was very well composed. I do not forgive you. But I will acknowledge what you have said, and hope that your expressed feelings hold true in the future. And, I am pleased, if somewhat surprised, to be considered one of your great and valued friends. Apology accepted, Mister Potter. Now, if you will tell me what it is that you believe Albus Dumbledore expects you to achieve on his behalf?"

Harry didn't quite know what to do. He really wanted to tell Professor Snape how much he appreciated the help and guidance the professor had so freely given. Instead, he returned to his former point. "It's not so much what I'll do, as what I will be able to relieve the Headmaster of having to continue doing. Magic like he has... and I have, I guess, though I have a long way to go to get his kind of control..." Harry seemed lost in thought for a moment, then shook himself out of his reverie to continue. "Anyway, that kind of magic - that being in touch with the basic, essential fabric of magic - it never lets you quit. Dumbledore can't... ever... stop being what he is, no matter how tired he might get, or how much he wants to relax or take a vacation." Harry knew his explanation was floundering, and he searched for an example that could make his ramblings more concrete. "You, Sir, if you wanted to, you could put your wand down and never cast another spell as long as you lived. It would be an inconvenience, and I don't imagine that you would want to do something like that, but... you could. Dumbledore can't. He can't not do magic any more than either of us could decide not to breathe." Harry's face brightened and he started speaking faster, very excited by his newfound comparison. "It's just like that. Just like breathing. If you held your breath, it would start to hurt. Maybe you could learn to discipline yourself enough to ignore that. But if you held your breath long enough, you'd pass out. And then you'd start breathing again, automatically, as soon as you lost consciousness. It's like that with the Headmaster. He can't stop being what he is. But, if I defeat Voldemort... and maybe, go a little farther... get involved with politics or something like that... then I could be what he is. And then, he'd have a way to stop being him. Quit being the leader of the forces of good, or whatever you want to call it. It's all bound up with his magic. He can't help it. And he can't stop. And I think he really, really wants to. So if I win..." Harry trailed off with a shrug.

Snape had heard enough vague generalizations from adolescents to be able to ignore most boys' rantings about their elders. But this one, while still somewhat short-sighted, innocent and absolute in its expressed values, seemed frighteningly plausible. Harry as Dumbledore's replacement? It would make sense... except for Albus' own brutal description of his plans to use Potter... and Longbottom, if it came to that. Could Dumbledore be suffering from a kind of split personality? Hardly. As woolly as the old man liked to present himself, Snape had never known anyone as sane as was Albus. Or was he? Snape thought about the ridiculous hunt for the Malfoys, and several other recent lapses in judgement from the Headmaster - not the least of which was hiring Aaron Sepal, despite knowing the man was an active Death Eater. Not to mention losing Pomona Sprout in the first place. There was much to ponder in this situation. "Mister Potter," Snape said in a crisp, businesslike tone. "I will consider this report more fully at my leisure. I may make the writing of the actual book an assignment some time in the future. For now, however, could you please tell me what you have learned about the role of hair in communicating one's status in wizard society?"

--- --- ---

Monday was, as Professor Sprout had promised, a light, easy day, over by lunch time. Harry had asked whether the professor had found a new job yet, and she had smiled in a way that seemed to say she could not believe her own good fortune. She brushed off the question with a vague, 'several people have expressed interest,' and Harry knew better than to push her for any more information. When she left the campus at the end of their half-day's work together, Harry watched her walk away once more and thought that he saw a lightness in her step that had been missing the previous week. He hoped she would do well. He had grown to like Professor Sprout in these past couple of weeks, and her decision to leave Hogwarts was a constant reminder of the deep divisions that separated those people he had thought to be close allies.

Harry enjoyed the lazy afternoon that followed lunch, and the long summer evening after that. He stayed in his room, reading, gazing out the window and daydreaming. He thought he had better be sure to enjoy this relaxing day while he had the chance, since he had no idea what the new professor would be requiring of him tomorrow and thereafter.

On Tuesday morning, Harry met Professor Sprout as she was arriving for work. She was cheerful, with a definite bounce to her step, and a broad smile for him as she found him waiting for her. "Early today, Mister Potter?"

"Wouldn't miss a minute of it, Professor," Harry grinned back at her. "I just wanted you to know that I really appreciate the..."

"Tut!" Professor Sprout interrupted, shaking a warning finger at him. "I'll have none of that just now. It will be hard enough to leave these grounds as nearly empty as they are without you reminding me of how much I will miss the students as the years go by. Quickly now. Let's make sure everything is right where it should be. I won't be found slacking when it's time to turn my Department over to someone else. Go on, you check the tools, I'll inspect these rows of pots."

And so they began their last day of work together.

Within their first hour, visitors arrived. Albus Dumbledore led Aaron Sepal into the greenhouse. As the door opened, Dumbledore's voice could be heard wheezingly going on about the problems of staffing Hogwarts' many teaching posts. "... not like Defense Against the Dark Arts, of course. That one has required a new teacher for every term since... Ah. Here we are. Professor Sprout. You remember Mister Sepal."

Harry was shocked at the extremity of the chill conveyed by Professor Sprout's, "Yes."

Sepal's, "Professor," was absolutely neutral. Harry could understand that the new employee would not want to be seen as a troublemaker, and so would hold back from replying to Professor Sprout's greeting in kind, but it was still very clear to him that both parties had already decided they did not care for each other in the least. Dumbledore indicated Harry himself next.

"This is our summer help in Herbology. A student entering sixth year next term who has taken on the challenge of being sole assistant to... well, to you, now, Mister Sepal. Until next term begins, of course. Then, I daresay, you'll have no help at all. Which will leave you with quite a lot to do and too few hands with which to do it. But perhaps I should allow Professor Sprout to explain that... and... ah... all about the Department that she has run so competently. Professor, would you be so kind as to..."

But Aaron was not paying any more attention to Dumbledore's rambling narrative. He was looking at Harry as though the boy should be familiar, like a neighbor who had moved away, or an acquaintance he had not spoken with in a long while. "If you are going to be my summer help, I guess I should know what to call you. 'Hey, you' gets very old after a while, don't you agree?"

Harry was about to introduce... or, more properly, re-introduce... himself when Professor Sprout interrupted before he could speak. "I beg your pardon, Mister Sepal, but are you saying you don't remember Harry Potter?"

The surprise on Sepal's face seemed genuine. With an apparently delighted smile, he held out his hand toward Harry. "I certainly didn't expect this! Harry Potter. It's very good to meet you, son. I'm honored." Baffled, Harry took the proffered hand and shook it wordlessly.

Professor Sprout was not about to let the mystery drop, however. "Mister Sepal, how can you not recall your last meeting with Harry Potter? It was mere days ago, on your last visit to Hogwarts."

"Pardon me, Professor," Sepal replied with exaggerated dignity. "I must have missed the opportunity to be introduced. I am very pleased to meet my summer help - and to meet the Boy Who Lived - and especially happy to learn that they are one and the same. I make it a point to be familiar with my staff, no matter where I am working or what projects we may be working on. And I would certainly remember being introduced to Harry Potter, thank you." For a moment, as Sepal looked down his nose at Professor Sprout, he reminded Harry very strongly of Snape. Harry wondered wether that particular superior look was something that Death Eaters were required to learn.

Professor Sprout looked as though she were about to snap back at Sepal, but instead turned to face the Headmaster. Red-faced and clearly furious she loudly demanded, "Albus Dumbledore, did you obliviate him?"

Harry noticed several curious things at once. Dumbledore looked at Professor Sprout as though she were a child who had said a naughty word. The Herbology Professor put her hand into the apron pocket in which she carried her wand. Aaron Sepal's eyes went blank, and he appeared to be concentrating very intently. Though the new Herbologist was standing absolutely motionless, there was an impression of speed about the man that made Harry wonder if Sepal were casting some sort of spell. Using the technique he had worked on over the past three days, Harry squinted slightly and allowed his eyes to go out of focus. He concentrated on his memories of the magical membrane that he should be able to perceive at will. There were too many distractions for him to perform the feat completely. Relaxation and quiet were the best conditions in which to to it. But he could see something, and it did not seem as though Sepal were doing any magic at all. With a shrug, Harry returned his focus to the material things around him, and found Dumbledore looking back at him thoughtfully.

Almost immediately thereafter, Aaron Sepal's eyes regained focus as well. Suspiciously, he turned them back toward the Headmaster. "You did, didn't you?" he asked quietly. "There are... Merlin's Ghost! There are nearly four hours that I can't account for. What happened then, Headmaster Dumbledore? What did I do... what did you do to me during all of that time?"

"Nothing that you should be worried about," Dumbledore said with a vague wave of one hand. "You were, after all, under the supervision of the school's mediwitch the entire time. The obliviation was done to block the memory of the pain you were in. And, since it was done under medical supervision, and for anaesthetic purposes, you should be able to recover all of your memories by utilizing the techniques in which you have been trained."

"Mediwitch," Sepal spat. "How was I injured?"

"As you will eventually recall," Dumbledore said calmly, "you suggested that young Mister Potter was drunk. In fact, he had been working so hard for so many hours that he was actually quite exhausted. Understandably, he took exception to your accusation. The two of you duelled. Though I must say it was not much of a duel. You never laid a curse on him. And he took you down as though you were a tender novice. You were nearly killed, Mister Sepal. You were suffering greatly. The records you will want to check are all in our medical office. Madame Pomfrey will assist you in recovering the salient documentation."

"And during this four hour period of which my memories have been obliviated? Did we do anything? Did we talk? Or was it all emergency surgery?" Sepal was doing his best to appear angry, but Harry could see how nervous the man was. He was worried and frightened, and using his outrage to try to mask that. With Dumbledore's next comment, the mask slipped away, leaving Sepal staring in shock.

"Mostly," Dumbledore murmured dreamily, "We talked about your employment in the service of Lord Voldemort."

It took him a while, but Aaron Sepal rallied, gained control of his voice, and snarled, "That's a lie!"

Albus looked tired and sad as he said, "No, Aaron, it is not. After all, it is not your training as an herbologist that will help you recover your... temporarily... missing memories, but your training as a Death Eater. And don't worry about having revealed any confidences. You could not tell me anything I did not already know. Old Tom Riddle and I have been going at this for far too long for a pup such as yourself to give me any real revelations about the so-called Dark Lord. In fact, it was while we were talking about your service to his organization that I formally offered you the position of Herbology Professor. You got the job while discussing your life as a Death Eater."

"That makes no sense!" Sepal protested. "You wouldn't... you couldn't hire a known Death Eater to teach at this school!"

"And yet, I know about your service in that very organization. I know about your loyalties, and your politics. And surprise - you still have the job."

Sepal stood staring silently in shock. Professor Sprout would not remain silent any longer. "Congratulations, Albus, you have finally lost your mind. I had thought that today - when he actually showed up here and you could see, right in front of your face, what you were doing - you would reverse your ridiculous decision and fire him before he started. Instead, you admit to knowing everything - and you still welcome him to the school, to the staff, and to the student body. You are mad at the very least, Albus, and I fear you may be worse than that. Good luck to your students next term. And goodbye to you." She stalked out of the door, the Headmaster gazing wistfully after her.

Sepal, meanwhile, had been concentrating again. as Pomona Sprout walked out of view, he returned from his mental exercise and confronted the Headmaster once again. "I may be able to remember more in future," he said disgustedly. "But for now, I think I am going to have to take your word about what happened between my assistant and myself. Clearly, you cannot expect me to work with such a dangerous individual, in close quarters, where he will have countless opportunities to do me further harm every day."

"And yet, Aaron," Dumbledore replied with equanimity, "I do expect you to do that very thing."

"No," Sepal stated flatly. "You need me, Headmaster. You know I'm the best choice for the job. And your former Professor just stalked out of here calling you insane. If you think about it logically for a moment, you will realize that it is not unreasonable to refuse to work with someone who would start a duel over a comment, even if it were particularly insulting, which I refuse to believe it could possibly have been."

Before Dumbledore could reply, Harry said, "I am staying in Gryffindor Tower. That is all I ever asked for. Remus and Professor Snape can provide security, as they have been doing."

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Revolt, eh? Well, Professor, I must say that you will have a difficult time of it, with no one to show you around."

Harry heard the term 'Professor,' and his heart sank. He had held on to the belief that Dumbledore would somehow change his mind and send this Death Eater away from the school - or even kill him outright. Instead, the Headmaster had addressed the man by the title that confirmed Sepal as a member of the staff.

Sepal put on his superior air once more. "I am an Herbologist, Headmaster. I can find my way around a greenhouse."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at that, but made no comment. He turned to Harry. "As for you, my boy..."

Harry met Dumbledore's eyes evenly. "He's right, Sir. He works for Voldemort. I hate what he stands for. If we were left alone together, I would kill him."

"Ah. Well. We can't have that," Dumbledore said with resignation. "Very well. Harry, you are relieved of your duties as Herbology assistant for the rest of the summer. Please try not to kill any of the staff. I believe Professor Snape has some material he wished you to study before next term. Ask him about it, please. You are excused."

With a curt nod to the Headmaster, and no acknowledgement of Sepal at all, Harry turned and strode to the greenhouse exit. As he left the building, he heard Dumbledore begin to explain something to Sepal. 'Now, Aaron, what we will be doing...' Harry let the door shut behind him and began the long climb to the castle. He wondered if he really would have killed the Death Eater now working in the Herbology Department. It was a consideration he would have to take seriously from now on. If any of his plans were to bear fruit, he would very likely have to kill more than one person.

--- --- ---

Carrying his broom on his shoulder, walking toward the Club course for Public Day, Draco should have been happy. Since he walked with his mother at his side and his pockets methodically stripped of any money at all, he was less so. Narcissa strode along the French streets in a plain black dress and minimal makeup. She kept her eyes fixed on where she was walking, but Draco could tell she was quite aware of every stare that followed her, and every comment that was made about her. But as much as those things may have stoked her ego, this walk was not about Narcissa's vanity. Draco's mother accompanied him to make sure he did not escape to England again.

After his last escapade, when Snape casually betrayed his whereabouts to his mother, Draco had been confined to the house. He had hated it. There was nothing to do alone at home. His mother had suggested that he read. She seemed to enjoy making the suggestion, as though she knew that being confined to his room with books would drive him insane. First of all, he hadn't travelled all the way to France to spend his time locked up in a box pretending there wasn't a whole new country to be explored right outside his door. And second of all, he had already been feeling the lack of acceptable society even before the fateful journey which had resulted in this intolerable confinement to his quarters. He hungered for a battle of wits, longed for sophisticated conversation, yearned for news regarding that class of people he could actually care about. After a few days in his tiny French home, he was beset with claustrophobia. He wanted out! Even walking around the streets would be preferable to leaning back against a stack of pillows with a book on his belly. Read. Ugh. But Public Day offered a chance for Draco to get out and do something. It would also give Narcissa a chance to size up the Public Day participants - especially the girl Draco had, allegedly, spent some time in conversation with: Artemis Themyscria. And even though Narcissa couldn't keep her eye on the boy all day long - the course was too long and rambling for that - she could make sure he checked in with her from time to time to prevent him from doing something stupid like leaving the country again. The pair arrived at the course, Draco kicked off and waved goodbye, flying some lazy circles to get warmed up, and Narcissa walked to the grandstands to join the other spectators.

As soon as Draco was out of sight of his mother, he flew to the far side of the Clubhouse, opposite the grandstands, and walked in as casually as if he had enjoyed a lifelong membership. A single question at the desk gained him directions to a floo that could be used for private conversation. He picked up the tin of floo powder and wondered, which will it be? Unexpectedly, he found that the call he most wanted to make was to the Weasley twins. The mystery of what they were up to was still most intriguing. But he had nothing else to offer them, not even a good estimation of when he would be returning to English soil, so that would be a useless call to make. So it would have to be a friend. Crabbe or Goyle? Goyle was lazy, but showed occasional flashes of cleverness. Crabbe was merely stone-thick; strong, but stupid. Goyle it was, then. He sprinkled a pinch of powder onto the tiny flames and enunciated, "Gregory Goyle, England." A chaos of possible choices flashed past the hearth opening, then Goyle's living room showed clearly. "Oi! Greg! You there?" Draco keened in what he imagined was a middle-class tough-guy accent. He had found that calling though this particular floo with any sort of properly modulated polite greeting was a sure way to get Gregory's father to break the connection. Greg himself appeared almost instantly.

"Draco, you world-travelling git. Where the hell have you been, man? And did you get him yet?"

Draco stared at his friend's beefy face, unable to make any sense of his question. "Get who?"

"Well, duh... Potter," Greg sneered. "I failed. Vince hasn't even tried yet, so that leaves you. Heh. I'll bet you're as good as the Duke of Dorchester already, aren't you, you dog."

Draco sighed. Maybe Greg wasn't as clever as Draco had remembered him being. "Why would 'getting' Potter make me Duke of Dorchester?" he asked patiently.

"Because the Big Man wants him, doesn't he?" Greg snapped back. "Haven't you even been to see... uh... the Big Man... yet?"

"No, I haven't. I have had some slight difficulty in my life of late. It's not like I've been on bloody vacation. There are some serious repercussions to my father's case... I don't have time to explain all of that. What are you talking about?"

A few minutes later, when the conversation had become too stupid to endure, Draco had hissed, "Got to go. Trouble," and had broken the connection. Greg had smirked conspiratorially and had winked to show his understanding. ('Winked!' Draco lamented. Does the boy have no sense of style whatsoever?) But more important than his stylistically-retarded friend was what Draco had heard during their few minutes of conversation. That had been quite disturbing. Things seemed to be spiralling out of control in the home country. Vince had been offered a reward for recruiting Harry Potter into Voldemort's service. Meaning to cheat his friend out of that reward, Greg had attacked Potter at Hogwarts, and Potter had defeated four boys - easily and decisively - even though the attackers had been mounted on brooms. Draco tried to put these things together with what he already knew. Did Snape and Potter plotting together mean that Snape was going to bring Potter to Voldemort? Then what was with the werewolf and the Weasels? They wouldn't be involved with anything involving the Dark Lord, and they certainly seemed to be involved in whatever Snape was doing, so that explanation didn't make any sense at all.

One thing seemed logical - with ominous implications for his own situation: if Voldemort was looking for boys who were no older than Vince or Harry Potter, he would be looking for Draco himself soon. Maybe he was already looking. Maybe Draco appeared to be a coward who had run away rather than join the cause. That thought gave Draco pause. He hadn't ever had to think about what he would actually do when Voldemort called. While Lucius was still free, there had been no choice - Draco would join the Organization when his father took him to be introduced. Once Lucius was jailed, Narcissa seemed to have different ideas about her son's future, which left him equally out of the decision making process. She had skipped off to the Continent without alerting anyone in the Organization, and had certainly left no forwarding address. But how could Draco return to England - ever - if he were perceived to be a traitor? The Death Eaters were notoriously unforgiving of those they believed had betrayed them. Not responding to Voldemort's summons now could have fatal repercussions when he finally managed to return to his home country.

But in the few moments between breaking the connection with Goyle and returning to check in with his mother, Draco had a chance to consider what decision he might make if it had not already been made for him. If he were to be given a choice... what would it be? His future had been decided for him for so long, that he had never bothered to find out any of the details that would be necessary for making an informed decision. And now, there was a totally new factor to consider. He had stumbled on to it by accident when he had visited Diagon Alley, and considered himself fortunate to have done so, because somehow, he believed that whatever Snape was planning was important. Whatever it was, he felt it was going to change the balance between Government and Opposition forces, break the stalemate that had held for so long between Voldemort and Dumbledore. So far as Draco could see, he had one opportunity to figure out what was really going on, and that was to learn what Harry Potter and Severus Snape were doing with the Weasleys. Snape had said that Potter would be coming to the Malfoys' new home for 'speech lessons' - whatever that meant. But Potter had not showed, nor had Snape made an appearance since. More than ever, Draco was determined to get back to England. He walked calmly out of the Clubhouse door, kicked off and streaked into the line of trees that blocked the grandstand's view of a portion of the course. He turned and flew back to the main arena, landing lightly in front of the seats and walking up to join his mother. "Having a good time?" he asked innocently.

"There's always world-class excitement at the Xenophon Course," she replied dryly. "Now go play. You're still grounded when we get back home."

Draco flew a few lazy loops that were easy to fly but looked impressive from the ground. Then he sped off to search for a real challenge, though one would be hard to find with the course inactive as it always was on Public Day. His mother had sounded stern enough, but at least she was talking to him again. It would require a small enough effort to go from there to regaining some freedom. And freedom would be essential. He had to get back to England again.

--- --- ---

Wednesday morning, Harry awoke at his regular time, even though he no longer had to report for work. Remus was still, nominally at least, charged with looking after him, so rather than hide in his room all day, Harry decided to get up, bathe, dress and go down to the hall for breakfast, exactly as though this were another normal day.

The first sign that the day was going to be significantly other than normal came at breakfast. Remus joined him, and the two of them ate, alone except for one another, sitting at what would normally be the Gryffindor table in cavernous expanse of the Great Hall. As Harry was buttering a muffin, an owl swooped through one of the hall's high windows and dropped a Daily Prophet on the table before wheeling and flying away without pausing for so much as a moment's rest. Harry scowled at the roll of newsprint, annoyed at seeing the sensationalistic rag he had come to dislike so much. Yet he was intrigued by the mystery of who might have sent it. He did not have a current subscription to the newspaper, and in the past two weeks he had not read a single issue. In that time, he had managed to forget much of the tension that accompanied the arrival of the Prophet every day during school term. During the weeks (which had seemed like years) during which the Prophet had featured Harry as a subject in the speculative, rambling stories by Rita Skeeter, he had dreaded the paper's delivery, since someone would invariably find the 'Potter' article and make some comment about it, usually accompanied by laughter or the low rumbling of hushed discussion. Now that today's issue had been dropped within inches of his hand, he did not really feel it would be worth making the effort to reach out and collect the thing. With a disgusted snort, he turned away from it and resumed buttering his muffin.

"Do you mind if I have a look at your paper, Harry?" Remus asked pointedly, not understanding Harry's apparent disgust.

'He wouldn't understand,' Harry reflected. 'Remus wasn't around Hogwarts for the worst of the Prophet's libelous tripe about me, and he probably never saw any of the "Insane Potter" stories.' With a shrug, and a wave of his butter knife in the paper's general direction, he said, "Go ahead."

Harry may have expected Remus to settle back to read the news. Instead, the man opened the paper and immediately turned the front page back to face Harry. "I think I can see why someone would send you this," Remus remarked, waiting for Harry to acknowledge the bold headline before him.

Harry looked up, barely interested in what the Prophet might have to say about anything. He read the headline, then stared at the picture beneath.

"DEATH EATERS IN THE CLASSROOM!" was spread across the top of the page, just below the Prophet's normal folio. Beneath the header was a picture of Aaron Sepal, walking onto the Hogwarts grounds along the Hogsmeade path, apparently staring directly into the lens of whatever camera had captured his photograph; and another picture of Albus Dumbledore, escorting Sepal into a Hogwarts greenhouse. That photo was less dramatic, but no one who had ever seen the Headmaster could miss Dumbledore's flowing white hair and beard. The sliver of facial profile that could be seen merely confirmed the reader's first impression. The subject was definitely Dumbledore, and he was showing Aaron Sepal around the Hogwarts campus. Without the accusing headline, the pictures would have been very uninteresting - hardly newsworthy by any standard. With the header, the pictures appeared to be firm evidence of a sinister plot. The photographer who captured the full-face view of Sepal had done his job quite well... if his job was supposed to have been to make the man look threateningly intense and potentially violent. Harry supposed that many people who found themselves faced with the long walk onto Hogwarts' grounds from the nearest apparation point must have shown expressions very much like that one. The look of focused determination was just as likely due to irritation at the inconvenience of being unable to apparate directly onto campus as it was due to anything more sinister. 'And yet, the Prophet has struck again,' Harry thought, grimacing. Suggestion and innuendo were much more their forte than good, solid reporting. But he had to admit that, in this case, their innuendoes were suggesting the correct conclusion. There would be Death Eaters in the classroom, all right. Between this Sepal guy and Snape...

Harry dropped his muffin. "Remus. We have to show this to Snape!"

Remus didn't move, didn't even react to either the dangerous implications of the headline nor Harry's agitation. "What is it we must do... Mister... Potter?"

Harry glared back at the man in irritation, then the phasing of Remus' question registered. "Oh. Pardon Me. Professor. Professor Snape. We must show this to Professor Snape!"

"You have to be conscious of what you are saying, Harry," Remus explained in a patient, kindly tone. "More damage has been done through inadvertent insult than through deliberate invective."

"Yes. Right. Thank you. Please, Remus, teach later. We have to go now!"

Harry and Lupin descended to the dungeons swiftly, newspaper tucked under Remus' arm. By the time they had arrived, however, their news was already old to the potions professor. As Remus displayed the headline, Snape nodded and waved the paper away. "I know. I have, in fact, already been the recipient of an owl from the Ministry. The bird was quite put out at having to deliver its message to me here, but it accomplished its mission - and waited for my reply, which I dutifully sent."

"What did you say? What did they want?" Harry asked, nervous and impatient.

"I would guess that what the Ministry really wanted was what they have desired for years: free and unfettered access to Hogwarts and control of her operations. However, all they had the gumption to actually send in this particular letter was an alert to all Hogwarts staff members regarding the advent of Ministry-sanctioned inspection teams. There are to be representatives from the aurors, of course, and inspectors from the Departments of Public Safety and of Education... I would guess that would be Dolores Umbridge, or whoever her successor might be. The inspectors are to arrive separately, and are to be shown all reasonable courtesy, cooperation and respect, etcetera. They should be arriving shortly."

Harry's face was pale as he asked, "Do they... the Ministry... do they know... that... you..."

Snape's own worry showed only in the relative weakness of his sneer. "My official status is that of 'Youthful Offender;' someone who had minimal contact with the forces of the opposition during the last war, and who had completely reformed before the war's conclusion – another example of the remarkable ability of our Headmaster to manipulate official findings and obtain decrees beneficial to his own interests. My official pardon, however, came with many strings attached. One of which was that I was to have no further contact with any opposition forces." He suddenly grinned with extreme viciousness. "One of the ways that condition was to be assured was by having me employed at Hogwarts, under the direct supervision of Albus Dumbledore. The champion of the loyal forces would hardly allow me to be exposed to the opposition, would he? The answer seemed so obvious to the Ministry that I have remained free from Ministry questioning from the time of my pardon until today. Obviously, any secrets I may wish to keep regarding my activities during that period will never survive an official interrogation, especially with the use of veritaserum."

"That's illegal," Harry protested weakly.

Years of lecturing on the properties and uses of potions forced Snape to reply immediately, almost as though he were addressing a massed double class. "Because of the high likelihood of obtaining misleading, incomplete, or simply wrong answers, the use of veritaserum is banned in casual uses such as job interviews, or for parents disciplining their children. Use of veritaserum as a prank or with malicious intent is a crime, with severe penalties for those convicted. However, in many cases of official investigations conducted by aurors, the use of veritaserum is mandatory." Snape paused dramatically, and Harry's heart sank as he realized what must be coming next. "My case is one of those."

"What did you tell them in your reply?" Harry asked dispiritedly.

"I made sure to reference my long and rich history with the Ministry," Snape replied in a businesslike manner. "That august body has long acknowledged that the potions I brew for their use are the best obtainable in this country, and among the finest to be found anywhere in the world. If they do administer veritaserum to me, it will almost certainly have been brewed by me. And no, that does not give me any special immunity to its effects," he snarled in response to Harry's sudden look of hope. "In my capacity of potions master - for the school as well as for private contracts such as those I enter into with the Ministry - I must search the world for ingredients. Only the finest will do, and only I have the necessary expertise and experience to be able to select those. So, I told them I will be away from the castle, performing that search, until term resumes in September."

"And what will you actually do?" Remus asked gently.

"That," Severus said, and paused, looking from Lupin to Harry and back again. "Depends very much on you, and how much you trust me." Remus nodded sagely, but Harry was baffled.

"What do you mean, Sir?"

"I have made some rather strong predictions," Snape explained carefully, "about what could be achieved in the near future. How many things could be accomplished, how many plans could come to fruition. Remus is aware that in those predictions, he and I are both interchangeable, replaceable parts. One person is absolutely essential. You, Harry, are that person. However, you have nothing to fear from the Ministry's impending invasion of Hogwarts. Since their aim, clearly, is to remove Aaron Sepal from his newly gained position as Herbology Professor, you may actually welcome their arrival. You may find it in your best interest to go back to your room and wait until Sepal is carried off campus in restraints, then resume your interrupted summer employment. But if you feel that our plan is proceeding properly, that your education is being helped by my guidance, you may want to... go shopping for potions ingredients with me... until you have to return for classes next term."

Harry looked to Lupin, who was watching with a studiously neutral expression. "Remus?"

The werewolf shrugged. "You're not doing anything here, anyway. Things are going to get unpleasant as the Ministry tries to move against the new Professor, and... let's face it... you don't want to encounter any more 'Department of Education' types again, do you?"

Harry's mind was made up. "We'll all go," he announced. "What about Hedwig?"

"Uncage the bird," Snape advised. "She can stay in the owlery, and I have no doubt she'll be able to find you whenever necessary."

"What do I need?" Harry called back over his shoulder, already moving toward the door on his way to his room.

"Change of clothes, books you haven't yet read, wand, whatever cash you have lying around. Leave anything that is not essential. No broomstick, no sneakoscope, no pictures."

Harry felt a stab of guilt at leaving his parents' pictures behind. Meaning to ask about them again, he stopped at the classroom door and asked, "Where will we go?"

"I really don't know," Snape said in an uncharacteristically offhand manner. Just as Harry was turning away to leave, he added, "Have you ever heard of a place called Godric's Hollow?"

Harry felt a chill run down his spine. A feeling of dread gripped him, which was very puzzling, because he couldn't recall exactly what they had been talking about. Then he noticed that Lupin had taken one of the chairs, sitting down hard and hanging his head between his legs as though he were battling seasickness.

"I thought so," Snape murmured. "Hurry up, Harry. Get your things, release your owl and be back here as quickly as possible."

Harry turned and ran, still very confused.

--- --- ---

Aaron Sepal had been at his new job for less than an hour when he noticed the first signs of trouble. He had actually been quite impressed at the condition of the collection that had been entrusted to him, and pleased that tools and materials were where they belonged... although there were subtle insults left for him throughout the Department. Such as the way the labels on all of the plants had been cleaned and faced outward for easy reading, as though he would have to be told what a fangwire or a thintwicket were. Still, the insults were easily ignored, and the exemplary organization of the greenhouses - even if that condition was meant to suggest that he couldn't find his way around an unlabled Department - was much better than finding plants mislabeled or in poor condition. The overall health of the entire collection was astounding.

It was while inspecting the last row of potted plants in the second greenhouse that he saw it. He was checking the condition of the heavy-limbed shrub students called the 'octopus tree.' The seed packets, each with eight streamers hanging from a bulbous structure (that young Herbologists invariably called cephalo pods) ranged in color from pale yellow to blazing red, a usually reliable indicator of good health. The thick, twining branches had unbroken bark, the very tips of the new growth were bright green, and the roots, which ran shallow and frequently broke through the soil's surface looked, at first glance, to be very strong. But there was something unusual. Aaron bent close to inspect the largest portion of root protruding from the dirt. There were blisters forming on it, in a sickly yellow color. "Bubbleroot?" Sepal wondered, and uncovered more of the root structure to inspect. In seconds, it was horribly obvious. The entire plant was infected with bubbleroot. But that was ridiculous. Bubbleroot was a tropical disease, and while the octopus tree was a tropical native, the disease had never been able to stand the harsh climate outside of its normal environs. He would have to investigate this. He went to get a sample jar and some tools, but on the way he stopped in his tracks to stare at a bristling starleaf, which he was certain had been bristling earlier that morning. It was obviously not bristling now. In fact, now it seemed to be exhibiting a classic example of a disease that had plagued these plants a decade or more ago in the east of England, stagnation at leaf. Many plants could shrug off the effects of stagnation at leaf, but if a bristling starleaf became affected, the disease could be fatal. He started for the supply cabinet again, intending to bring along an extra sample jar on his return, when he halted abruptly once more. The hawkberry bushes were starting to collapse, the victims of whitherstem.

'This is ridiculous,' he told himself firmly and drew his wand. He cast several magical detection spells on the hawkberries, then turned and repeated the process on the bristling starleaves and the octopus tree. Except for the almost inevitable background magic that was constantly present in a place such as Hogwarts, there was no evidence at all that any of the plants had been cursed.

Had the plants all been infected last night by someone sneaking in and exposing them to genuine infectious agents? If that were the case, he couldn't figure out how it could have been done. The greenhouses had been locked, and Aaron had put up his own, personal warding on each of the doors just to be safe, especially after the way Pomona Sprout had stalked off, angrily challenging the Headmaster's decision to hire him. His wards had all been present and apparently undisturbed this morning.

Aaron began to worry. If these diseases had been released slowly into the environment over the past few weeks by the disgruntled departing Professor, there could be infectious agents loose that would decimate the entire collection. He would have to start anticipating what biological agents had been deployed and how to counter those things before they struck. His real surprise was in how precisely the infections had been planned. The plants had all been healthy when he arrived, and several had become infected this very morning. How had Sprout timed all of this so diabolically well?

Sepal spun on his heel in shock, staring as a yamacki vine fizzled violently and turned to ash before his eyes. Fuserunner! A virus that affected only vines, but was so virulent that it could not possibly have been left behind to affect the yamacki vine at some later time. Fuserunner was essentially uncontainable - if it were in the environment, all vine-like plants would be affected immediately. He looked to the nearby fangwire, waiting for it to sparkle and burn from the fuserunner's effects. Nothing. He cast magical detection spells all around the remains of the yamacki vine. Nothing. But the yamacki lay in ashes now. It had been infected with fuserunner. Where had the fuserunner gone? Under normal circumstances, it would have leapt immediately to the nearest vine - the fangwire was easily within its transmission range. But if there had actually been fuserunner in this greenhouse earlier that morning, the vines... at least the yamacki vine which had been affected... would have gone up in fizzling sparks long ago.

Could someone be apparating contagions into the greenhouse? Sepal had been assured over and over again that apparation within Hogwarts grounds was impossible, but what else made any sense? He cast revealing spells throughout the building, looking for the magical residue of any apparation. Nothing. He began to sweat. This was very, very weird.

Two hours later, Aaron Sepal sat at a workbench with four dozen sample jars in front of him. Hogwarts' entire collection of valuable and exotic plants was being destroyed specimen by specimen, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. The plants weren't cursed, no one was apparating disease-causing organisms into the area, and yet nearly fifty different plant diseases had attacked at almost exactly the same time this morning, devastating the plant population.

The diseases themselves had to be specially engineered mutant strains, because they certainly weren't behaving the way they were supposed to. The fuserunner had destroyed exactly one plant. It had taken the yamacki vine out entirely, burned it to ash, leaving nothing salvageable behind. In any normal situation, such a disaster would call for an immediate quarantine of the area, and the isolation of all vines behind biohazard-resistant barriers. After the yamacki was destroyed, however, no other plants were affected at all. And no matter how many spells he cast searching for the disease's causative agent, Aaron could find no trace of fuserunner anywhere in the greenhouse.

A similar thing happened with the bubbleroot that had taken the octopus tree. The disease had progressed with preternatural swiftness, weakening the tree's roots so thoroughly that the entire plant had broken at ground level. The blistering that normally affected only the roots of the plant had spread all over it, from the stem to the newly sprouted tips. The plant had died within minutes, even though bubbleroot usually takes weeks to kill a healthy plant, and some plants can recover from the disease and be fully cured of it.

Even stranger, as Aaron examined the samples he had taken from the octopus tree's root, he could find no active bubbleroot alive in the sample at all. It was as though the disease-causing organisms had abandoned their victim the moment it had died. But wherever they had gone, it had not been to any other plants in the collection, because even though there were several that could have been susceptible to the disease, none contracted it.

The same mysterious pattern of strike-and-disappear was repeated in the cases of whitherstem, stagnation at leaf and more than forty others. The plants were dead, apparently victims of advanced cases of disease, and yet, there was not a disease-causing bacteria, virus, fungus or parasitic organism left alive in the entire Herbology Department. He was going to have to call for help.

Unless this was a test. And if it was a test... was it a test to see whether he would call for help when it became necessary? Or was it a test of whether he would be able to deal with his problems on his own? If it had been a test devised by Voldemort, Aaron was certain which it would be. Whiners and quitters were not welcome among the Death Eaters. And it was well known that there was no one on earth closer to Voldemort in sheer power and organizing ability than Albus Dumbledore. So it only made sense that Dumbledore would fashion a test in the same mold as one Voldemort himself would favor. That meant Aaron was going to have to figure out this mystery plague on his own. And there was probably no easy answer waiting for him to discover. He would have to think his way around the problem, find a solution that was creative and surprising, that would impress his new employer.

As Aaron was thinking this, the greenhouse door opened. Sepal turned, expecting to see the accusing face of the Headmaster, but instead there was a young man, most likely a student. The new Professor was irritated. He had no time for 'meet the kids day' just then. "Hello," he called out, intending to shoo the curious child away. But the boy walked quickly toward him, announcing himself as he moved.

"I am Neville Longbottom. Herbology is my major study. I intend to become an Herbologist once I graduate Hogwarts, and I wanted to be the first to congratulate you on your new position."

"Too late," Sepal replied without humor. "But you can be one of the first dozen. However, I do not have time right now. A bit of a problem has arisen..."

Neville looked at the sample jar in on the workbench and immediately interrupted. "Bubbleroot. Are you isolating the tropical plants?"

Sepal's eyebrows drew together as the corners of his mouth turned down. "As it happens, young man, I am not. I..."

But Neville drew his wand and confidently stated. "That's all right. I can do it. Do you prefer positive air pressure or a physical barrier?"

"Nigel!" Sepal snapped. "If you are ever going to learn anything about Herbology, you will have to learn NOT to go dashing off without knowing what you are dealing with. I have not isolated the plants because there is no need. The disease is, itself, dead."

Longbottom turned back to face the teacher with a satisfied smile. "It's Neville, Sir. You killed the bubbleroot in time?"

The embarrassment of the situation made Aaron even more sarcastic than he had intended to be. "Something killed the bubbleroot, Norville. But whatever that something may have been, the only thing I know about it is that it was not me."

His face showing real concern for the fate of the plant, Neville asked, "What happened to the tree, Sir?"

Sepal was nearly out of patience with this youngster's interference. "It D-I-E-D, Norville."

"Neville, Sir," Longbottom corrected absently. "So all you need is a new octopus tree."

Sepal crossed his arms over his chest and looked down his nose at the boy. "Why, yes, Neville. All we need is a new, rare, magical tree that only grows in the tropics, and which would have to sit in quarantine for weeks, even if we were to find one we could afford - presuming it was for sale in the first place."

"I have one," Neville shrugged.

"What?"

"I have an octopus tree. I could bring it here, and when it seeds, we could grow a replacement for me, and Hogwarts could have the one I grew."

Sepal gaped at the boy. "You... grew... an octopus tree. Do you live in Great Britain, boy?"

"Oh, yes," Neville replied easily. "England, actually. Large estate. Belongs to my grandmother. I have quite a collection. As I said, Herbology is my major study. I intend to be an Herbologist. You probably remember such things from your own schooling. You know, there are some classes where you just do the homework, and others where... well, where you grow the octopus tree."

"And you are willing to bring your tree here... and accept a seedling from it in return?"

Neville smiled brightly. "It'll be worth it! And lots of fun. I'll have the experience of harvesting a seed from the original tree, then growing a new one from the very beginning. I think that would be more valuable to me than simply keeping the tree I already have."

"And do you have a plan for getting your tree to school?" Sepal asked, much less sarcastically.

"That would be where I could use your help," Neville admitted. "But since I presume you can apparate..."

"It would be difficult to apparate with a tree," Sepal scoffed, but he was already thinking of several means of transportation that might well work. "I am very impressed with your offer, Neville. I will make arrangements to come and collect your plant within a few days. But, unfortunately, the Hogwarts collection has had several more problems than that." He indicated the sample jars next to the bubbleroot specimen container.

"Hold on a bit," Neville said absently, peering through the glass at some of the samples. "Is this bristling starleaf? And a fireseed?"

"Don't tell me you have both at home," Aaron said, disbelievingly.

"I certainly do," Neville said with pride. "And the fireseeds are putting out pods. I know it's late in the season, but anytime is good when it provides a chance to harvest fireseed pods, don't you agree?"

Sepal was nearly salivating. "Tell me you have a yamacki vine," he almost begged.

"Yamacki vine? Oh. Yes. But it's small. I don't know if you'd be interested." Neville looked disappointed, almost embarrassed at lacking a mature yamacki.

"Yamackis grow fast. I would love to have one. But, what will happen to your own collection if we take all of your plants to Hogwarts?"

"They'll survive, which is more of a chance than they may have in near future at my home," Neville admitted. "My grandmother is out of patience with me taking up all of the room in our yard. She'd take clippers to them all if I didn't find some place that wanted to take them."

Sepal stared at the boy in amazement. "You grew... these kinds of plants... in your yard?"

"Well, with some help," Neville said hurriedly, as though he had been caught bragging, and was trying to apologize for his lapse in good manners. "The fireseeds had to have some time in the oven. And some of the tropicals needed a lot of moisture in the air, which couldn't be provided outside."

The Professor smiled. This boy might have some promise at that, he thought. "You used the oven for your fireseeds?" he prompted.

"Oh... well..." Neville said, blushing. "You should have heard the house elves. It was like I'd committed some kind of crime. Which, I suppose, to them, I had done."

As the boy talked on about his gardening adventures, Sepal reviewed his options for transporting a large quantity of plant material. He soon had a good beginning of a plan. 'And that,' he thought smugly, 'is thinking around the problem. If this greenhouse plague was supposed to be a test, then whoever set it up for me will have to be pleased when the new plants come rolling in to replace the dead ones. And I was going to call for help,' he thought with a shudder. He was glad that he hadn't exposed his weakness by doing so. This was going to work out much better.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Snape sat on a low stone wall next to a quaint country road. He had apparated all three people: himself, Remus and Harry - as well as their meagre luggage, and he was feeling very drained of energy. To Harry, their departure from the school had seemed especially exciting, since they had purposefully avoided the front entrance, leaving the building instead by a back way accessed through a long, secret corridor that branched off from the dungeons and travelled underground for quite some way. They had used an apparation point which was heavily overgrown, completely unmarked, and on the opposite side of the castle from the familiar one on the Hogsmeade path. Once the three of them had appeared next to the quaint roadway, Snape's shoulders had slumped and he had walked wordlessly to the low wall, where he sat as though exhausted. Harry watched the man, thinking how odd it was to see Snape sitting at all, especially when he was not maintaining a perfectly erect posture. Snape sat on the wall deflatedly, elbows on knees, barely able to hold his head up. "Mister Lupin," he called, "do you know this place?"

Remus was standing precisely in the center of the roadway, facing directly away from where Snape sat. "No, I can't say that I do," he admitted.

"Would it help if I pointed out that you are facing precisely the wrong way?" Snape said with some exasperation.

"Oh. Yes. Certainly, it would," Remus replied genially enough, and turned around... and continued to turn around until he was facing directly away from Snape once again. "No, sorry, don't recognize this in the least," he said lightly.

"Mister Lupin," Snape persisted. "Can you please turn to face me?"

"Right away," Remus replied easily. But when he turned to face the wall on which Snape sat, he had to cover his eyes with one hand, thumb pressing hard into one eye, index finger pressing hard into the other. He took long, slow, deep breaths, his shoulders hunching around his head protectively.

When Snape spoke then, his voice had a calming, soothing quality that Harry had never heard from the man. The sound was nearly hypnotic, and implied a great, deep patience. "Think, Lupin. This is merely the place where you are now. You stand here right now, offering no one any harm. Nothing from the past is here today. Just you. Standing here, right now, offering no one any harm. And this is merely the place where you are. You are not looking for anything. You are not pursuing anyone. You simply stand here, in this place where you are right now. Feel your feet on the ground. You are not pursuing anyone. Feel the air around you. You are not looking for anything. You are simply here. Right now. Think, Lupin." The soothing litany went on for some time as Remus struggled to gain control of himself. Harry, baffled at his own absentmindedness, kept expecting to see the Hogwarts castle around him. He would look around the open area, admire the pleasant surroundings, remember the excitement of escaping the castle before the Ministry could arrive, then focus on Snape or Remus for a moment and feel surprise at not being back in the castle again. The repeated effect was disorienting, and was making him rather seasick.

In a voice filled with pain, Remus said, "I do know what this place is."

"Then you know what magic is doing this to you," Snape intoned gently. "That charm is many years old, and has had no reason to exist for nearly that long. It is unravelling, losing its potency. That is how I was able to think of this place at all, and find its location after some effort. But you were close to the place and to the people, and to the events surrounding the charm. You are more affected than most. Which is wrong. You are their friend. You have their son. If anyone should be granted admission, it is you. Feel the ground beneath your feet. Feel the air surrounding you. This is just the place you are now. And you should be welcome. Think, Lupin."

For a long while, Remus stood trembling, listening to Snape. As the minutes passed, he seemed to relax. Then he began to weep. He staggered off of the road, but before he could reach the wall, he collapsed onto the grassy ground and cried in great, wracking sobs. Harry felt awful. Remus was clearly suffering, but there was nothing the boy could think of that might help. He stood there, feeling useless, and - after the weeping had continued for a while - starting to feel rather embarrassed, although there was no one around to watch.

As Remus began to gain control over his sobbing, his breath came in halting hitches. He tried to open his eyes, but he had not yet regained enough self control for that. His sobs resumed, and in a hopeless wail, he cried, "James! Lily.... James!"

Harry's jaw dropped. What had Snape said? 'You have their son?' He looked over the wall into the overgrown yard beyond, but couldn't seem to focus on it. He blinked and tried again. He could clearly see a tree, or a patch of grass, but when he tried to take in the entire scene, it wouldn't resolve, remaining a confusing blur. Could this be the place in which his parents had lived... and died?

Snape's sneer was back. "Oh, thank you, Lupin. While one of us remained ignorant, we retained a guide through some of the tatters of the old Fidelius. Now, he'll be more deeply affected than either of us, since he has been searching for this place - symbolically at least - since he was a baby." He watched Lupin struggling to gain control of himself for a while. "There is nothing to be done but to confront the conundrum directly, then. Can you stand?"

Remus pushed himself to hands and knees and shook his head. "I don't... I will be able to. Give me a moment." Several false starts later, the werewolf rose to his feet and stared hopelessly across the low wall. "I can't see it," he said wonderingly. "There's a blur where something should be, but..." he trailed off, gazing blankly at the yard only a few feet away from his eyes.

"Try focusing on one thing," Harry said quietly, walking to the man's side. "Pick out a tree or something. It gets easier."

Seeing Harry standing there solemnly, offering him advice, seemed to make Remus feel a lot better. "I'll try that," he said, but first he looked back at the roadway behind them. "There's not much traffic out here, is there?"

"I don't know who cast your Fidelius charm," Snape said with quiet respect, "but it was monstrously effective. Development has ignored this entire area. People take other routes to avoid this road. No one lives out this way. It is the place that time forgot."

"The plants didn't forget to grow," Remus said, sounding much more cheerful. "It's a jungle in there. Is there a way in?"

Snape pointed at the wall. Less than ten feet away, there was a small gate.

"Oh. Right," Remus replied, face flushing. "Not such a good start, is it? I hope I don't break my nose walking into the house I fail to notice."

"Walk slowly," Snape warned. "That result is more likely than you may believe."

The walk to the house was extremely weird for Harry. He felt that he should recognize this place, felt somehow that he should know it, should remember the pivotal event of his young life. But he could not recall anything about his life here. Nevertheless, the charm that had protected this place by directing people's attention elsewhere was exercising its full effect upon him. He was, effectively, blind. The surrounding vegetation was a blur. He tried closing his eyes, but he was still disoriented, not sure whether he had turned or gone straight, or how many steps he had taken. "Professor!" he shouted, "How Did Hagrid Get Me Out Of Here!?"

"No need to shout, boy, I'm right next to you," Snape replied quietly. "But you do ask a good question. Hagrid is a half-giant. I presume that his nature protects him from some of the effects, but it is a mystery."

"And my Mom and Dad!" Harry said, still too loud for the potions professor's comfort. "How did they get their bodies out?"

"Lupin!" Snape demanded. "Was there ever a funeral for James and Lily?"

Remus scowled. Being in this yard had made it difficult to concentrate on anything. "There were services, of course. The person who should most have been there couldn't be, since he was being accused of causing their deaths, but..."

"You know what I'm asking, Wolf," Snape snarled. "Were there caskets? Did you see the bodies?"

"Caskets... yes," Remus mumbled, fighting to concentrate. "But bodies? No. The caskets were closed. Someone's request. We never saw... never saw them."

"Remus!" Harry shouted. "Are they still in there?"

"Doesn't make sense," Remus said shaking his head, trying to clear it. "There was a murder investigation. They would have needed... them. The victims, that is..."

"No." Snape stated coldly. "There was a betrayal investigation. Everyone knew that the Potters had been murdered. Everyone knew who did it. There was only the question of who had revealed their location to the murderer. So there was an investigation into their betrayal. Never into their murder. So far as we know..."

"Mom! Dad!" Harry screamed and dashed deeper into the yard, searching for the home in which his parents had been killed, and in which their bodies might still lie. There was a sudden, blinding pain in his forehead. Harry had the time to think, 'Voldemort got me after all,' and then there was nothing.

Harry awoke in a wide, soft bed. There was some kind of wrapping on his head, like a bandage, so he assumed he was in the hospital wing. How had he injured himself? Quiddich? No, that didn't seem right. He smiled as he saw Professor Snape walk into the room, carrying a bowl of steaming liquid. Had Snape brought him soup? How unlikely... and how nice.

The potions professor sat on a stool at the side of Harry's bed and reached out to loosen the bandage around the boy's forehead. He drew a hot cloth out of the bowl he had brought and began gently washing the scrapes on Harry's face.

"Hi, Professor," Harry said weakly.

Snape scowled back at him. "Your remarkable luck holds, Potter. You attempted to decapitate yourself. Instead, you suffered some scrapes. These will hurt, but if they are properly cleaned, they will not fester. You may not even have any more facial scars." He applied the hot washcloth to Harry's face. It did hurt. "That was very stupid. Running blind into an area that had already produced confusion and disorientation..." He sighed. "You know what you did. Remember that it was stupid, and please don't ever do anything like it again."

Harry lay back and allowed the professor to clean his wounds. "What did I hit?"

"There were so many potential obstacles that it is amazing you got as far as you did. You found the house for us, actually. You ran directly into the front porch."

"Oh," Harry said in a tiny voice. Then concern for his friends overcame his embarrassment. "How are you... and Remus... um... doing? I mean..."

"The longer we stay here, the more able we are to function. You lost a lot of time lying here, but so long as you take it very slowly, and move carefully once you get up, I'm sure you'll be able to treat this place as a normal home very soon. And you should be able to treat it so - it is, actually, your house."

"Mine..." Harry looked around the bedroom. While what he could see did not suggest the opulence of a Malfoy Manor, when compared to the Dursley's home, it was luxurious. The room was large, with wooden paneling covering half of each wall. The windows were wide and showed a broad expanse of very ill-tended yard basking in the late-afternoon sun. "How long have I been here?"

"Several hours. I debated taking you back to Hogwarts for medical attention, but after a rather frightening bit immediately after your injury, you seemed to be sleeping normally. If you had stayed asleep much longer, I would have taken you, anyway."

"Glad you didn't," Harry said, trying to sit up. A heavy throbbing in his head forced him back down immediately.

"I told you your headlong rush was stupid," Snape scolded. "Had you been playing quiddich, your assault on the porch would doubtless have been called a foul."

Harry lay back until the worst of the pain went away. "Professor, please tell me. Were my parents...?"

"We found no bodies. I believe that the closed-casket funeral ceremony Lupin recalls was held that way because there was no immediate family in attendance, rather than due to any more sinister reasons."

"But this is where it happened. Voldemort... and my parents, I mean."

"Yes. A secluded place known as Godric's Hollow. Once a part of an immense estate - as was most of the land in England at one time. This small piece was not set aside for growing crops or raising livestock, however. It was meant, I believe, to be gradually developed with houses much like this one. Your parents took advantage of this house being the first to be built here to establish their secluded hideaway. There were other settlers here at one time, as well. Officially, Godric's Hollow is considered a 'Hamlet,' so there must have been enough residents living here at some time to have made them worth counting. Then, someone cast an unbelievably powerful Fidelius charm, and the world forgot this place ever existed."

"Does everyone have... uh... the kind of reactions we had? Confusion... blindness... feelings of dread?"

"Everyone suffers something, I would guess," Snape said distractedly, inspecting the cuts on Harry's face once again. "But most people would not notice it happening to them because they would simply turn away and ignore this place. I shudder to think of how the erstwhile residents of the area reacted. They may have simply forgotten that they had homes here. I would hope that they were able to wander away safely and continue their lives elsewhere. By contrast, the three of us approached this particular dwelling directly, with deliberate intent to come onto the property. And since we all had some history with the people who were originally intended to be the beneficiaries of the Fidelius' protection, we all suffered more visceral symptoms than most people would. Or so I believe. I am not about to test the hypothesis by inviting guests."

"Then... what will we do?"

"You will read, I will attempt to gain some intelligence regarding our enemies' movements, Lupin will do... whatever he can, I suppose. What is important now is that you're in a safe place, where no one is likely to think of looking. If anyone does look, and manages to find this place, I can only hope they take the same approach to entering the grounds as you did. It will make deciding what to do with an interloper much easier if we are allowed to contemplate them as they lay unconscious for several hours. Now, rest."

Snape collected his washcloth and bowl and left Harry lying there, wishing the ache in his head would go away.

--- --- ---

Days passed quickly at Hogwarts following Harry's departure. Dumbledore found Snape's note, informing him of the potions professor's departure to "search for ingredients," and the fact that he was taking Remus Lupin and Harry Potter along with him. The Headmaster understood the reason for Snape's swift departure, but strongly disagreed with his decision to take the others along. Albus had fully intended for Potter to remain at Hogwarts through the summer, through the next term, and through whatever time was necessary until Voldemort could be defeated. He hoped that Snape realized what a tremendous amount of power resided in that one small boy. Underestimating his potential could lead to disaster.

Dumbledore also met with several inspection teams from the Ministry of Magic. He was invariably courteous, but somehow, none of the teams left with what they had come for.

On Thursday morning, a group of aurors called on the Headmaster at the castle. They did not have to search for the man, or solve the puzzle of Dumbledore's office password, since they found him waiting for them at the front door. The team's leader, Bjorst Binner, approached the Headmaster and introduced himself and his team. He then consulted his clipboard and began asking after those people he most wanted to see.

"We would especially like to speak with one of your employees, Headmaster. A new hire, I believe. His name is Aaron Sepal."

Dumbledore smiled indulgently. "Well... I can certainly show you his Department. Herbology, that is... greenhouses and the like. All out of doors... except for the portion contained within the confines of the greenhouses themselves, of course. Would you care to have a look at them?"

Auror Binner was too sharp to miss the re-direction that the Headmaster had introduced. "I would like to speak with Mister... or is it Professor? Sepal, please."

"Oh, yes. Professor, it is," Dumbledore beamed. "He will be teaching come the beginning of next term. His assistant is here. In the Department... helping out for summer."

"And this assistant is?"

"A student. Sixth year come the beginning of the term, and quite gifted in the field of Herbology. Hogwarts has one of the finest collections of plants in the entire world. It is really something to see. And our summer assistant... Mister Longbottom... is quite the effective guide to our plants."

Binner scowled as he checked something on his clipboard. "I had thought that Mister - Potter - was your summer help for your garden work."

"Oh. Yes. Well... that was earlier. Now, we have engaged Mister Longbottom. Would you care to see what he is doing?"

"I would care," Binner repeated icily, "to interview Mis... that is, Professor Sepal. Please."

"Oh. I see," Dumbledore said and stared back at the auror with a watery gaze. After a long moment of silence, he concluded, "But Professor Sepal is not on campus, you understand."

"No, I do not understand. I came here specifically to see him. I had understood that he would be on campus, especially since he is so new to the staff and must have much to do in order to get ready for next term."

"Ah," Dumbledore with a sage nod of understanding. "But you see... teachers do not necessarily have to be on campus in order to prepare their... lesson plans and such."

"Right," Binner said acidly, his mouth set in a hard line. "Will Professor Sepal be back on campus today?"

"I can't really say," Dumbledore replied easily. "I'm not sure what his plans are... until next term, of course." He smiled at Binner, oblivious to the auror's growing impatience. "You are a young man, Mister Binner. And I have been in service at Hogwarts for a very long time. I would have thought I would remember you from your years of schooling, but... perhaps I am becoming too old to recall everyone... I cannot seem to place you."

"I took my instruction at Durmstrang." Binner's voice, which had been delivering the most flatly unaccented English Dumbledore had ever heard, changed dramatically as he pronounced the name of his old school. The strong Germanic accent could not have been imitated in such an effortlessly natural manner, even by an experienced actor.

"That is no doubt why you were chosen for this particular investigation," Dumbledore said. "No... prejudices to interfere with your... ah... clear observation. Excellent choice."

"Or, my name happened to be next on the duty roster," Binner countered, his English once again studiously free from regional influences. "Which I believe is more likely. The Aurors are constantly busy, Headmaster. We have little time to shuffle officers around to gain doubtful advantages such as the one you suggest. So. I cannot count on meeting Professor Sepal today. But if I am here for a little longer, I improve my chances of encountering him on his possible return to the school, is that right?"

"Quite right," Dumbledore looked delighted, as though Binner had properly answered a question in class. "Can I offer you a place to wait?"

"No, thank you," Binner demurred sourly. "It would be more productive if I could speak with some other members of your staff. We are still awaiting replies to a number of our owls, Headmaster, and the messages our owls carried were quite emphatic in their request for an immediate reply. Your deputy, Assistant Headmistress... ahh..." He searched his clipboard for a name. "McGonagall,. May I speak with her?"

"Certainly. She is in Egypt, I believe."

"Which is it, Professor?" Binner snapped. "Can I speak with her or is she in Egypt?"

"I'm sure she would be very willing to speak with you, Mister Binner, if you could simply go to where she is now. I believe that currently, she is travelling in Egypt. On the beach."

"The beach." Binner was plainly disgusted, now.

"The beach... various beaches, really, all around the world... are very popular with our staff during their free time," Dumbledore explained, clearly emphasizing the phrase 'free time.' "During the term, our staff is very busy at all times, and no one has much chance to get out of doors. And... as you know... in winter, here... it snows. No, the beach calls strongly to those of our staff who are able to take vacations."

"So your deputy is in Egypt. What about the staff member with the longest service record?" Another check of the clipboard. "Professor Binns."

"Professor Binns has been... deceased... for some time. He always shows up for classes. And he is a truly tireless lecturer. But, when classes are not in session... ah.... neither... is he. And, as he is a ghost, when he is not here, he could be... anywhere."

"Right," Binner snorted. "No Deputy, No Binns. Flitwick?"

"South of France, I believe."

"Beach?"

"Yes... I think so."

"Trelawney?"

"Spain, if she is following the itinerary she mentioned to me."

"Beach?"

"Oh, almost certainly."

"Hagrid?"

"He is here."

"Beach?"

"No, Mister Binner. Here. On campus. Near the paddocks in which some of our magical creatures are kept. You may speak with Mister Hagrid. I am sure he would be glad to see you. Allow me to show you the way."

Binner was so startled at finding a staff member present, he said nothing until Dumbledore had walked completely past him and halfway down the stairs. "Wait!" he called. Dumbledore turned slowly. "Before we go out to pasture, I would like to speak with another staff member first. Where is Professor Snape?"

Dumbledore looked at Binner as though the auror were a small boy who had been caught stealing cookies. "I believe that Professor Snape has already communicated with your office regarding his expected movements during the weeks remaining before term begins. He is searching for potion ingredients. I believe he is in Brazil right now, though I could be mistaken."

"Brazil. On the beach?" Binner said sarcastically.

"Oh, no," Dumbledore said with convincing sincerity. "I believe his first stop was to be with the Amazonian Headhunters. Unless he was planning on making some of his more dangerous searches first."

"Very cute," Binner spat. "Listen, Headmaster, you can't protect everyone forever."

"Nor do I need to, young man," Dumbledore said crisply, eyes boring sharply into the auror's own. "Your vaguely threatening hints are unprofessional in the extreme."

"Are they?" Binner countered, matching the Headmaster's glare. "Then let me make them a lot less vague. You have two employees here who are collaborators with He Who Must Not Be Named. We are going to expose them, try them, convict them and send them to Azkaban."

Binner's fierce stare faltered when Dumbledore smiled gently. "Not only unprofessional, but immature and ultimately futile," the Headmaster said quietly. "Rather than representing the ideals of proper investigation and impartial service to your country, you have declared a vendetta against two individuals - based on no evidence whatsoever. And foolishly, you spoke out within the hearing of your colleagues who accompany you. They will be my witnesses. You know that Severus Snape has been fully pardoned. And all you seem to know about Aaron Sepal is what you read in the newspapers. I will be speaking to Mister Baskerville today. I am sure that the next time an assignment involving Hogwarts comes up, your name will... not... be next on the duty roster."

"What?" Binner demanded, outraged. "I tell you the God's honest truth and you offer to call the Captain? Talk about weak threats! I am here specifically to capture a pair of Death Eaters..."

"Enough!"

Later, talking about it amongst themselves, the aurors in Binner's group all agreed that for an instant, the Headmaster of Hogwarts had seemed to tower above them, blocking out the sun and making the ground itself shake as thunder voiced his single word of command. But in the next instant, as the white haired old man stood before them, normal sized and quiet, he was even more frightening. He had refused to allow Auror Binner to stay on campus. He had welcomed the rest of them to continue whatever they had intended to do, but Binner was no longer welcome. He had made this insistence stick, somehow. Later, Binner would claim that it was simply because the two targets were not available, but the rest of the group wasn't so sure. In any case, Binner had ordered his entire inspection team to follow him off campus and back to headquarters to file a report. When the group had arrived at headquarters, Auror Binner was called away, and the rest of the team was left to file their report without him.

There were other inspection teams sent to Hogwarts in the following weeks. But Bjorst Binner was never included in any of them.

--- --- ---

The summer seemed fleeting in France, as well. Draco never lost the feeling that his free time was being wasted while he remained stuck at home without even a floo connection to provide minimal social contact. But Narcissa's fury could not last long. As angry as she had been with her son - and as thoughtless as she had believed his actions to be - she soon found herself ready to trust him with some freedom once again.

Narcissa had tried her best to provide a safe haven for her child, protected from the vengeful Ministry, the demanding Death Eaters, his father's many enemies, and even that intolerably nosy school Headmaster. (Dumbledore was supposed to be immensely powerful, and many members of Lucius' Organization were in awe of him, but Narcissa suspected that his real strength lay in his tenacious prying into everyone else's business, even as he had tried to spy on her, once Lucius was in jail.) But keeping a boy safe and keeping him happy were sometimes two mutually exclusive goals. What she had accomplished over this summer was to nearly drive her son insane, making him feel as imprisoned as his father was. It was a situation that couldn't last, and after Draco had been grounded for long enough to realize that stupid actions could indeed bring serious consequences - even for him - Narcissa decided to let him out of the house under his own supervision.

At first, Draco was allowed only a few hours outside at a time. Narcissa had to congratulate her boy on ingenuity - he found a way to travel to Paris on a very limited budget. She, personally would not have wanted to take the 'bus' into which so many muggles could be crammed at one time. But if Draco could stand it, then more power to him. He still had no money to shop, which was difficult for him. But that was going to be a constant fact of his life until he could find a way to earn a new fortune to replace the one the Ministry had robbed his family of. So Narcissa let Draco go to Paris, speak French with the locals and hang around the sophisticated places he could not afford to patronize. He felt better, he returned home after each trip by the time Narcissa had designated as his curfew, and in so doing, he made great progress in regaining her trust.

The first real test of their new understanding came when Draco pointed out an advertisement to his mother. A comedy troupe of British wizards, known as the Fudgesicles, were coming to perform in Paris. Narcissa found the group's efforts sophomoric - Fudge satirized himself, the comedians hardly needed to stretch very far to find humor in what the Minister did - but she also knew that the sheer silliness of many of the Fudgesicles' routines had won them a wide following among young people throughout Europe. The Paris concert would doubtless be filled with people Draco's age, gathered to laugh and have a good time. She could hardly say no. Draco would need to leave early in the day to catch public transportation to the show, and there would be no convenient late bus returning on a direct route. Unless she wanted to allow him to fly his broomstick to Paris, she wouldn't see him until early the next morning. She did consider allowing Draco to fly, but she finally had to insist that her son leave his broomstick at home. She had heard dire tales of dealings with French bureaucracy, and she really didn't want to have to respond to a complaint by the Gallic equivalent of the Ministry's Misuse of Magic Department.

With a fatalistic shrug, Draco accepted the restriction, and on the morning before the Fudgesicles' show, he left home wearing muggle clothing, waving goodbye to his mother and walking toward the bus stop. As soon as he was out of sight of the house, he began sprinting toward a different stop altogether. If he concentrated, and put out the effort to catch the earliest bus to the Chunnel, he could be in Diagon Alley before the morning was out, and back home before his mother noticed he was late.

It took several more francs than he had estimated, and a connecting ride on the Knight Bus, but Draco met his goal, striding triumphantly onto Diagon Alley just before noon. He made his way directly to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, shoved the door open wide and strode purposefully into the shop.

There, out on the floor with strands of licorice in their hands, stood the twins. From what Snape had told him - while the Professor was betraying his adventure to Narcissa - Draco knew that he would have only a short time before Dumbledore's detection devices began to register his presence in London. But he also knew that - since he was going to offer to do the twins a favor in return for a clue as to what was going on between them, Snape, Lupin and Potter - they would be eager to accommodate him. Their warehouse was the perfect place to stay safe from being detected and to negotiate business. He checked the counter. Yes, the obstinate bitch that tended the shop for the twins was on duty. Perfect. He walked to within inches of the twins and with quiet intensity demanded, "Hide me."

"What?" both twins replied in near unison.

"Hide. Me." Draco demanded fiercely.

George looked at Fred, a slow smile spreading across his face. Fred returned the look and the grin. "If you insist," Fred said as both twins sharply flicked the strands of licorice they held. The candies immediately extended themselves to many times their original length.

WhhhhhickAP! ShhhhhhckUP! The licorice cut through the air, snapping hard against Draco's sides.

"Ow!" Malfoy shouted. "What in bleeding Hell are you doing?"

"As you requested," Fred explained genially.

"You're doing us a favor," George said with apparent gratitude.

"Allowing us to demonstrate our new Test Product."

"Weasley's Whips!"

"The Licorice that Licks You!"

SwwwwwwwwIP! HisssssssssAK! The licorice flew once again, giving Draco two more sharp snaps.

"Stop That!" Malfoy demanded.

"Oh, don't be like that, Draco," Fred pleaded mournfully.

"That's only four swats," George whined. "A good hiding takes at least a hundred."

"I don't need a good hiding!" Draco snarled furiously. "I have come for sanctuary. Asylum. Protection. Not to be beaten with candy ropes!"

"Licorice Whips," Fred corrected. "And I thought you knew what you were asking for when you came in here."

"We were holding the Whips when you asked to be hided," George said, nose in the air, clearly offended by Draco's unsportsmanlike attitude.

"What do you think, by the way?" Fred asked eagerly. "We could have 'em out by New Year's Eve."

"I think they're ridiculous!" Draco sputtered. "Who are they meant to appeal to, the joker with the sadistic sweet tooth?"

George sighed heavily. "That's what everyone has said."

"Not everyone," Fred argued. "I said they're too expensive."

"They've got to be expensive!" George yelled back. "We have to put all that candy in when we make them! It's hiding all that material so that the whip looks like a little tiny treat that's so clever!"

"No one wants that much licorice all at one time," Fred said soothingly.

"Someone does," George grumbled. "And this is the most portable package it could be put in."

"Fred? George? I need to get out of the sight of the scrying devices of the world. Now." The twins turned to see Draco tapping his foot in impatience, a frustrated scowl on his face.

"Have you committed a crime?" Fred wondered, rubbing his hands in eager anticipation of a good story.

"No," Draco said with obvious irritation. "I am trying to stay out of the direct view of..." he glanced around the shop. The counter person was still the only other occupant. "A.D.," he finished ominously.

"Good lord," George exclaimed, hand over his heart. "Draco Malfoy is hiding from the entire Common Era."

"There have been an awful lot of Annos since the advent of our Domini," Fred announced in carnival barker style. "Which ones are giving you trouble? Is it the Vikings of the eight hundreds?"

"The Romans!" George suggested. "It's always the Romans."

"The witch hunters of the twelve hundreds?"

"Or the witch hunters of the Thirteens? They were even worse!"

Draco stared at the pair in genuine bafflement. "What?"

"Anno Domini?" Fred prompted.

"Year of our Lord?" George added helpfully.

"You're both mental," Draco said in disgust. "The bloody Headmaster of Hogwarts has a set of Scrye Bars set to sound the alarm whenever I venture out in public. I was on the Knight Bus just now, and I had hoped that the Bus would confuse the things..."

"The Bus would confuse just about anything," George said with genuine sympathy.

"Or anyone... especially its riders," Fred reminded him helpfully.

"Well, I'm not ON the Bus now, am I?" Draco sneered. "I need to get somewhere safe... or get out of here altogether. Quickly."

"Office?" Fred asked.

"Warehouse," Draco insisted.

"Right," George nodded, stepping forward and putting his arms around Draco.

"Hold down the store for us, will you, Charlotte?" Fred called to the girl at the counter.

"Always have done," she replied cheerfully. "You two are hopeless at it."

With a raucous bang, the three young men disappeared.

--- --- ---

As Draco Malfoy and the Weasley twins appeared within the shadowy confines of the twins' warehouse, they all took a step back from one another and spent a moment straightening their clothes and generally getting their composure back. Apparation, no matter how often or how routinely it was performed, always brought a slight sense of unease to the traveller, and many habitual apparators were in the habit of checking to see that all of their limbs were still in place once their journey was finished. And for many young men, the close, tightly-held embrace that was necessary for apparating with another person was a cause for self-consciousness and embarrassment. Once the required checking and straightening was done, the twins turned to their guest with expectant grins.

"We've done our part."

"You're hidden. And well."

"In our warehouse, as you asked."

"We apparated you.

"Now it's your part."

"Tell us please -"

"Why did we do it?"

Malfoy smirked back at the pair. "You did it for the best of reasons: enlightened self-interest. You know perfectly well that the only reason I would come back here is if I were willing to do you a favor in order to gain a new piece of information in our little game regarding what's going on between you and a number of very unlikely co-conspirators. And I know that the only reason that you would make a condition under which I had to do you a favor is that you think I can do something for you that you want done. So. I want to know more, you want me to do something in return. I come here, agree to the deal and we both profit. Right?"

Fred gave George a look of pleased surprise. "Damn. He's good."

George nodded back like a haggling merchant getting close to an acceptable deal. "He has the explanation spot on, that's certain."

They both spun on their heels to face Draco. "How did you know our warehouse would be safe for you?"

Draco returned their probing stares with a smug look. "I figured it out. From observation, and from what Snape said." As the twins displayed their confusion, Draco became more insistent. "Yes, I did see him after I was here with you, but he had no idea how much he was giving away.

The twins studied Draco appreciatively. "Figured it out."

"And with so little to go on."

"Except what I had said when I brought him here the first time."

"You weren't very explicit, though, were you?"

"No... no I wasn't. No disrespect intended. He did very well on his own."

"Welllll... Snape helped."

"But not intentionally. And that's an even better trick."

"Getting Snape to help without his meaning to?"

"Absolutely. Congratulations, Mister Malfoy."

Draco sighed, reminding himself that he could afford to be patient now. He was safe from Dumbledore's scrying, and the twins were being no more irritating than usual. "So what is it you want me to do."

For a moment, astoundingly, the twins were speechless. When Fred finally ventured a comment, he was very cautious. Draco noticed that both twins kept their hands in front of them, as though they might have to defend themselves quickly. "I guess it's no secret that a lot of people..." Fred glanced at George, and their synchronized shrugs clearly telegraphed, 'including us' ... "A lot of people have had you pegged as a junior Death Eater in training for a long... well... since first year at least."

"Funny thing about that, is..." George hesitantly added, "... if you're going to do anything for us... it rather depends on your attitude toward the Death Eaters in general."

"And Voldemort in particular," Fred concluded.

"Just so we know where we all stand," George said, reaching very slowly into his robe and drawing forth a small device, "I'd like to put this on a convenient crate here."

Draco looked at the fragile metal wheel precariously balanced on its delicate glass stand and laughed out loud. "Weasley," he scoffed. "My father has schooled me in techniques designed to frustrate professional interrogators using veritaserum. Do you really think a sneakoscope will tell you anything useful as you're questioning me?"

"Not if you're really trying to screw us over," George admitted.

"But we don't need a sneakoscope to detect that," Fred grinned.

"For that, we have our noses."

"In a business like ours, you get a lot of jokers who think it would be funny to put one over on the proprietors of the joke shop."

"But for every one who has gotten away with a prank on us..."

"...there's a hundred who've been caught and dealt with."

"Not to say that some don't get us good from time to time."

"Like the bloke who paid us in exploding coins."

"But for the most part..." George laid his finger against the side of his nose and nodded assuredly. "We sniff 'em out long before they have a chance to harm us."

"So the 'scope is just... a sign of trust. Between friends."

Fred's smile seemed genuine, but Draco knew that with the twins, you could never really tell. Paradoxically, that was what made them, for Gryffs, particularly tolerable. Their outlandishness led to mischief rather than self-importance. Their lives had been dedicated to fun, not the stodgy rules-worship that cursed the majority of their House. More importantly, through all of their clowning, a definite intelligence was clearly in evidence in both of them. Draco decided it was worth taking a chance, since he had come so far already, and trusting these two with a taste of how he really felt. "All right, Weasley - your sneakoscope is acceptable. But I want quid pro quo. I tell you my disposition vis á vis the Death Eaters, you tell me your relationship with Professor Snape. Deal?"

The twins immediately agreed, and Draco grinned. "Because of your family, boys, I will bet that this is the first time anyone has spoken to you seriously about what makes the Opposition work. This may take a while."

Fred and George looked like kids buying their first tickets to a movie matinee. Wide-eyed and excited, they summoned chairs for all three of them. Draco pushed his behind him and remained standing, waiting for his audience to get comfortable. "First of all, you may be surprised to learn that being a part of the Opposition is not merely an 'Are You In Or Are You Out' question. I can tell you without disturbing your 'scope in the least that I am not a Death Eater. I can show you my arm..." He dragged his sleeve up. "... and there is no Dark Mark. But I still have nothing but contempt for the Fudge government. And Dumbledore's love for muggles, mudbloods, half-giants, werewolves, squibs and other inferior creatures is disgusting."

"Come on, Draco, the werewolf is with us," George chided.

"Actually, he's with Snape more than he's with us," Fred corrected.

"So if Snape can accept the man..."

Draco shrugged. "I have no love for werewolves. Maybe Snape discovered something I don't know about. Maybe Lupin is all right after all. That's not the important part, anyway."

"What is the important part?"

"Voldemort's philosophy. His official pronouncements, anyway. I'll admit, no one knows what he really thinks or feels. He's a political leader, he has a lot of constituents to appeal to. But the 'official' line is very simple: Wizards are better than muggles. We have magic. They don't. We're better. Do muggles sometimes breed a magic user? Yes. And I'll bet that if you checked far enough back in any mudblood's family tree, you'd find a wizard had sneaked in there, leaving his superior quality to show up in a later generation. More to the point: wizard families breed wizard children. When wizard families give birth to a child without magical talent, it's weird. It's a tragedy. It's certainly an uncommon enough occurrence that we don't even provide a place in our society for squibs. About the only thing we can do when one turns up is to give it to someone like Dumbledore. And even he can't find a decent place for the squibs of the world. He gets Filch, and can do no better than putting the hateful creature to work fixing and cleaning up after the rest of us. But squibs are the rare exceptions. When wizards have children, those children have magic. And the families with the longest pure wizard bloodlines behind them are the strongest. You two, for example. Your family may have abandoned wizard traditions, but your bloodlines go 'way back, both sides. The two of you... the way you make these..." Draco thought quickly, rejected his first dozen impressions of what to call the twins' merchandise, and finally settled on "... products. It's astounding. Very creative. Not the way your father used his magic - nor the way his father used his magic, for that matter. You two may have caught the golden ring as far as magical talent goes in this generation of your family. But none of your siblings are squibs. And there are a lot of you. My father is another example. Long bloodline, wicked strong magic. And even..." he forced himself to say it, though his voice dripped with acid as he did. "... even Harry Potter. Triwizard tournament, youngest seeker in years, on and on. But once again, the truth is obvious. Long bloodline, powerful wizard."

"Um... Draco?" Fred interrupted politely, his hand in the air as though he were in class. "Who is - magically - the most powerful in your class at Hogwarts?"

Draco scowled menacingly, but answered as honestly as he could. "Harry Potter. There. I said it. Satisfied?"

"No, I don't think that's right," George mused. "I would nominate Hermione Granger."

The twins listened for Malfoy's teeth to grind, but he surprised them by accepting the comment with equanimity. "There's a good lesson there," he explained. "If Granger were a pureblood, I would bet she'd be a Death Eater herself. She embodies another one of Voldemort's principles: hard work. Granger is not powerful; she works hard. She reads, studies, takes good notes, listens well... she's a little like a monkey learning to write. If she pays attention really well, and works non-stop day after day, she will eventually learn to make the letters. But just as the monkey will forever lack the humanity to create great poetry, Granger will forever lack the heritage to create great magic."

"Well, that's harsh," Fred said.

"Makes me want to go practice spells. She outdoes me easily," George agreed.

"Because she works hard," Draco preached. "Voldemort believes in working hard. And not whining. And in self-discipline. And it works. He nearly won the last war. And do you know how few Death Eaters there really were?

"No," both twins admitted.

"Fewer than a division of aurors," Draco said smugly. "And they seemed to be everywhere. A quick strike in London; a sabotage up north; a blitz in Ireland; a surprise attack in Wales. Nobody could stop them. No one could predict where they would show up next. Do you think that was easy? No. It took discipline. And hard work. And powerful magic from powerful wizards. It was only when Voldemort himself was... hurt... by his attack on Potter... that the Organization failed. They didn't have the leader to hold them together, to give them the direction, the purpose, they needed."

"Sounds undisciplined to me," Fred said innocently.

"Like they didn't work hard enough," George chimed in.

Draco sighed. He pulled his chair close and dropped into it heavily. "Well, that's the ticket, isn't it?" he said dispiritedly. "Voldemort's basic premises are sound, really - you can't argue against them. Wizards are better than muggles. Hard work is better than sloth. Self-discipline is the only kind that really matters. Great. So what do they do with it? The Lestranges go to Azkaban. My father goes to jail - the government might kill him. And where's Voldemort? Where's the jailbreak that saves my father's life? Where's the attack on the Ministry that pulls the loyal Death Eaters out of the care of the dementors? The Organization can't... or won't... do it from the bottom up, and Voldemort doesn't give a shite."

Neither Fred nor George had any reply to that. They both checked their sneakoscope. It remained motionless. Draco was telling one version of what he currently believed to be the truth. But the Weasleys' well-tested noses agreed with the 'scope. Draco had just insulted the Death Eaters, in a major way, and had meant it.

"So that's me and the Death Eaters," Draco rambled as he realized his hosts had nothing to say. "Still invited, I suppose... but no interest in joining. If they can't even keep their best member out of the hands of the executioner, why bother with them?"

"Ummm... Draco?" Fred ventured after Draco had fallen silent and remained so for quite some time. "Will you ever... you know... visit the leader yourself?"

Draco snorted in bitter laughter. "I was supposed to have been taken to meet the man by my father. Now? I don't know. I have a feeling that Crabbe or Goyle will find some way to get me to a meeting. But If Crabbe and Goyle are the standard representatives of the Organization for my generation, I don't want to belong. All right, boys: quid pro quo. You tell me, now."

Fred and George exchanged a look which seemed to say, 'Go ahead.' George turned back to their guest and said, "You have talked a lot about Voldemort, tonight. Snape and Lupin and I are helping to train Harry Potter to kill him."

Draco's face worked hard for a moment, trying to accommodate several different expressions of disbelief. Finally, he simply cried out, "Snape?"

"Oh, yes," Fred assured him. "And Voldemort almost expects it of the man - he set Snape up as a double agent in Hogwarts. It's Snape's job to play both sides. If he doesn't... well, he doesn't want Voldemort to be angry with him."

"That's our relationship to Snape."

"We're training an assassin together."

"And the boy's showing real promise."

"That's what we want your help with."

"If you're going to do us a favor..."

"... what we want is for you to take," Fred held out a small, rubbery cube. "One of these to your meeting with Voldemort."

"But only if your meeting includes someone else besides Voldemort."

"Such as Crabbe or Goyle."

"Especially if it's Crabbe AND Goyle."

"Even better if there's a really big group of new recruits."

"Because it would be best if you could set this thing off in Voldemort's headquarters while you were meeting with people of your own age - without Voldemort even being present."

"You put it out of sight, almost anywhere - stick it to the bottom of a chair like used gum."

"Then you point it toward your chosen beneficiary and trigger the timer."

"After the allotted delay time, the cube will go off - it's one of our standard prank items - and whoever you have chosen as the target will grow a Rainbow Beard."

"As long as a Dwarf's beard - down to the belt buckle long."

"And in every color from red through yellow to violet."

"Including blue and green."

"In real hair - 80 chance of it growing back after it gets shaved off."

"And then, the cube will seem to disappear."

"It will seem to have been used up in the act of casting the spell. It does its damage, gives the victim a beautiful multicolor faceful of hair, then it's history."

"But it leaves something behind."

"A patented Weasley brand Extensible Ear."

Draco stared at the twins in horror. "You want me to go into a Death Eater meeting, and take in a cheap practical joke... that turns into a spy device!? You're daft. You're mad. You're..."

"Draco, think a bit. I'm not asking you to take this into a meeting with your father and the Lestranges... I'm asking you to take this to a meeting with Crabbe and Goyle... and whoever else is going to be interested in joining the Death Eater movement any more. Who is that going to be? Parkinson? Lurker? Really, it'll be like going to the... the Slytherin common room! You'll go in with your friends, the joke will go off - and it sounds like Crabbe could really use a Rainbow Beard, don't you think? Then you'll leave. You don't have to go back... you're not really interested in joining, anyway. And we get our Extensible Ear placed right were we need it. If it gets traced back to anyone, it comes straight back to us!"

Draco stared at them, calculating his chances of making such an outrageous plan work. "No."

The twins' shoulders fell in disappointment. They searched for something to say, some argument that would make Draco reconsider. Before they could think of anything, Draco made his own suggestion.

"Just give me an Ear," he said seriously. "I can't guarantee that I'll even get the chance to go to a meeting. I can't say for sure that I'll have a chance to plant the thing even if I do. But if I'm going to take the chance of bugging Voldemort's meeting room, I'd rather do it without calling attention to myself by setting off practical jokes."

"The beard prank is a distraction, though, Malfoy," George pointed out. "It'll take everyone's mind off of serious matters and make 'em concentrate on how stupid Crabbe looks in a waist length rainbow. And it might make the whole group throw you out sooner. Get you away from the scene of the crime and out of danger of retribution."

"And it might just make them kill me outright," Draco sneered. "I think I have a better idea of the general mood and mindset of such meetings than either of you two do. No. If I take anything, I take an Ear. Only. No beard, rainbow or otherwise."

"I think you're making a mistake," Fred tried once more.

"I think there's a good chance I'll never even get the invitation," Draco snapped.

The twins spent the next half hour teaching Draco how to set up and activate the Extensible Ear.

--- --- ---

One place in which the summer did not seem to be passing quickly was in prison. Lucius Malfoy had raged against the restrictions that were placed upon him, which included supervision and observation of his every movement - even his meetings with his legal representatives. Lucius' lawyers had protested strongly, pointing out that in Great Britain, every accused person was allowed private consultation with his solicitors, but to no avail. Lucius Malfoy had been declared a danger to himself and others, even without his wand, even in a jail cell, even in solitary confinement. He would be watched carefully, and anyone who paid a visit to the accused while he remained in custody would be required to surrender his wand, submit to a thorough search, and agree to have his conversation monitored.

Privately, Lucius was glad that his confinement was solitary. His contempt for the common criminals that passed through the Ministry's justice system was enormous. He had nearly resigned himself to eventually being sentenced to Azkaban, and while he feared the effects of the dementors, he was confident that he would, at least, not be forced to endure the disgusting company of the prison's general population. If he were to be driven insane by the chilling power of the prison's guards, at least he would be alone.

The opening motions in the Malfoy murder-treason trial were held in August, to remarkably little fanfare. The popular press had essentially convicted Malfoy already, and had no patience for the plodding process of preparing for trial. Thus, the courtroom was quiet and uncrowded when Lucius, several solicitors and his barrister arrived for the first stage of the proceedings.

Lucius' barrister began the process with a motion for dismissal of several special circumstances regarding the case.

"While we intend to prove that my client is innocent of all charges..." the barrister suddenly fell silent at the sound of a gavel.

"Leave that for the opening statements. Get on with your motion." The judge snapped.

"Certainly, M'Lord. My apologies." Here, the barrister adopted the time-honored tradition of speaking of himself as though he were the accused. "But you will agree that - whatever the eventual decision of this court regarding me - my immediate family have not been charged, arrested, or even accused of any crime. It is therefore an odious burden for my family to bear: to be unable to use their home, under the provisions of the State's Special Order dated June 16th of this year that declares all of my property subject to seizure pending the results of this trial. My family cannot so much as place a stick of wood on the fire, since such usage would violate the Special Order and make them subject to onerous criminal penalties. I find it unacceptable that two innocent people - a child and his mother, neither of whom have been connected to any of the charges leveled against me - would be turned out of their home and denied the most basic of its comforts. This, without my having been convicted; due to an order issued before this trial had even proceeded to its most initial stages! Furthermore, I find it contrary to logic and basic decency that my fate should so heavily penalize that of my family, and only because of a law enacted to protect the delicate sensibilities of the monarchy: I speak of Standard Statute number one hundred thirty one thousand, three hundred thirteen, section M - which makes such seizures of property possible. We are living in the current age, M'Lord, in which Ministry has supplanted Monarchy as the rulers of our nation, and in which my family has real needs which must be addressed by the most basic consideration of allowing them to live in their homes and use that which is, by rights, their own. Please discontinue the provisions of the Special Order of June 16th, and declare such order null and void. The formal request is contained in the text of this document. Thank you, M'Lord." The barrister presented the formal motion appeal document to the court clerk.

The judge sniffed, unimpressed. "State?"

The opposing barrister rose and presented a document of his own to the clerk. "The State has a counter motion, M'Lord. We wish for the Court to dismiss all motions against the Special Order of June 16th. That Special Order was issued because of the special nature of this case. We are not accusing Lucius Malfoy of insulting the King, or of expressing an opinion contrary to that of the current government. We are accusing him of attacking our nation at its very roots. An example, to illustrate our concerns: a man who commits an assault injures the person he attacks. But the damage from an assault cannot be counted in terms of broken bones and hospital bills alone. It must also be counted in the loss of time at work, in the loss of ability to perform domestic duties, and in the fear and anger suffered by his family. This man is accused of crimes - including murder and performance of unforgivable curses - that have assaulted our entire nation. Through his actions, he has attempted to injure every person in this country; not only those he has killed, or tortured, but everyone who believes in and follows our laws and customs. The accused is believed by the State to be dangerous to the entire population, M'Lord. And, as we know from thousands of years of experience, treason such as that of which the accused is accused cannot be committed without support. Which in this case, is provided, in part, by his total wealth, which is inclusive of his property, his extensive business holdings, and his money, as represented by cash and securities. The Special Order is necessary both to provide compensation to the accused's victims and to prevent others from utilizing his resources to commit further crimes. "

The gavel sounded once. The judge seemed bored. "Special Order of June 16th stands. If there are no other pre-trial motions? Good. Accused will report for opening statements in this trial Thursday next. Court is adjourned!" With a final bang of the gavel, the judge stood and stalked from the room.

The barrister for the defense shrugged slightly. No one on the defense team had expected any decision other than the one that was handed down. Wordlessly, Lucius allowed himself to be led back to his cell.

--- --- ---

Studying books in the confines of his parents'... now, apparently, his own... house in Godric's Hollow could only go on for so long. Harry could practice formal greetings and the phrasing of diplomatic answers to difficult questions with Remus; and Snape was a strict judge of his learning, testing him with rapid-fire questions on everything from precedence of speakers at a Wizengamut meeting to the history of the last war against Voldemort. And though the questions became increasingly tougher, Harry was more and more successful, both at answering the specific inquiries correctly, and at understanding the underlying principles involved. But Harry knew that at least some of his apparent progress was an illusion. He had become so comfortable in the company of these two men that it was increasingly easy for him to think quickly and clearly when either of them posed a question or a challenge for him. It was time to introduce a new element, a different face to which he would have to respond.

It was time to go to France.

It was quickly decided that Snape would take Harry, without Lupin coming along. Remus' presence tended to boost the boy's confidence, giving him a sort of security blanket that Harry could not afford to become dependent upon. For some reason, Snape insisted that Tuesday morning was the best time to go, so on the Tuesday following their decision, Harry and Snape apparated to the neighborhood of small, quaint houses in which Narcissa Black now made her home.

The entire section of town into which they appeared was a revelation to Harry. He was familiar with muggle neighborhoods, such as Little Whinging, where his aunt and uncle lived. And indeed, this quiet collection of homes looked very much like that one, except for the variations in architecture and landscaping which really made only a superficial difference. Harry also had experience with the Burrow, which was very isolated from everyone else, wizard and muggle alike, and Hogsmeade, which was a completely wizarding village, without any muggles at all. Even in London, Diagon Alley had been completely divorced from the muggle portion of the city, and entirely unknown even to those muggles who lived and worked around its entrance.

But this neighborhood was mixed. Whatever the French equivalent of the British Ministry was, its philosophy must have been much the same. Magic was not to be exposed to muggle view here any more than it was at home. Wizards were not allowed to add animated statues to their landscaping, keep hippogryffs in their yards or festoon their homes with floating lamps. But as soon as Harry saw the street on which the Blacks now lived, he knew beyond a doubt that this place was home to both magical and muggle families - and that somehow, they managed to live together in apparent harmony - even if maintaining that harmony came at the cost of one segment of the population keeping its identity secret from the rest.

Harry, himself, wondered how he had come to such sudden conclusions, and how he could be so certain of what he had decided about this place. There was remarkably little evidence to go on. How could he be sure that the residents of this place got on well with one another? Admittedly, there were none of the scars one would expect to result from neighbors battling each other in house to house fighting. The homes were neat, tidy and peaceful. But it was more than intact walls and well-kept yards that made him so sure that he was right. It was a feeling he got, as though he could absorb information about the locale by breathing in its atmosphere. The boy decided that he would remember to investigate this phenomenon later. For the moment, Harry was satisfied to accept that he liked that neighborhood immediately.

Snape and Harry appeared in an undeveloped area between the back yards of two oppositely facing rows of houses. At home, Harry would have called such a feature a 'greenbelt.' But there, the ground would have been mostly covered with grass with a few shrubs near the edges. Here, there were enough trees to effectively disguise the arrival of a pair of apparators. The two of them walked out to the street, and strolled down the sidewalk toward the Blacks' house. Harry had been advised to wear muggle clothing, but Snape was in full robes. Glancing around to be sure they weren't being observed, Harry quietly asked, "Sir? Won't your mode of dress draw some attention in this environment?"

Snape consciously maintained his expression, as perfectly neutral as he possibly could, but beneath his impassive exterior, he was exulting. At that moment, Harry Potter was as different from the boy he had been in first year as a young man ever is from the boy he once was. The caution he exercised in checking his surroundings before speaking was tremendously different from the impulsiveness that had characterized the lad Snape had first met. His use of such a quiet tone contrasted sharply with his once-habitual loudmouthed comments. His phrasing: 'mode of dress,' and 'in this environment' especially, bespoke not only an improved vocabulary and grammar, but an improved understanding of what it was to get to the heart of what one wished to say, and express it succinctly. "Not at all," he said calmly. "If anyone gets near enough to notice, be sure you address me as 'Monsignor.' If anyone becomes curious, we will claim to speak only English." Only a slight curve at the corner of Snape's mouth gave any evidence that his instructions were part of a private joke.

"I do only speak English," Harry admitted.

"That bodes ill for you, then," Snape said curtly. "The members of the Wizengamut hail from everywhere on Earth, and while they all speak English, most of them have also taken the trouble to learn each others' languages as well. It is a sign of respect. However, you sell yourself unduly short when you admit to having only one language. You also speak and understand Parceltongue, a talent that quite a few wizards have wished they possessed over the centuries."

"Wizengamut?" Harry repeated with wonder.

"Of course," Snape chastised. "With what you are planning, did you think you would never have to deal with them? As soon as your efforts become known to the public, you will be closely observed by that body. Soon thereafter, you will be contacted, and possibly challenged. You will have to be ready." Without giving Harry a chance to respond to this, Snape turned onto the pathway that led to Narcissa's door. He knocked and was admitted immediately. He nodded in greeting and stepped aside for Harry to enter.

Harry blinked, trying to adjust to the dim light inside after walking through the bright morning air. He glanced to his side to see their hostess, once again dressed in a long black dress which, though a different garment from the last he had seen her wearing, still exposed a great deal of breast and thigh. He reminded himself firmly that this was Draco Malfoy's mother, and that helped negate the effect of her flawless skin and graceful movements as she closed the door behind her guests. As she turned to face them, Harry focused immediately on her eyes, and with a warm smile, said, "Good morning, Ms. Black. Thank you for having us."

It was obvious from her expression that she had already been studying Harry as he approached the house. "Good recovery," she acknowledged. "What were you thinking about while you were coming up the walkway?"

"The Wizengamut," he replied easily, but offered no further explanation.

"Good thing," she said in a hard tone. "If you take your scheme as far as you should, you will be dealing with them soon enough."

"I know," he admitted, and Snape could see the ghost of the old, insufferable Potter raising its ugly head once again. He felt much better when the boy continued with, "Do you have any suggestions that might help me?"

"Plenty," she stated firmly, then asked Severus, "Could you give us some privacy for a while?" Snape raised an eyebrow, and Narcissa scowled at him. "I'm not going to seduce him... or kill him. And you know that. You brought him here for my help. Get out of here and let me work."

Snape nodded wordlessly and strode off to another room. Apparently, he knew this house. Harry filed the bit of information away, and realized that he was currently filing so many bits of so much information in such quick succession that he no longer knew what was important and what was trivial any more. He wanted to ask Narcissa about that - about how she, as one of the wizard world's most famous hostesses, kept her information organized. But in order to do that, he had to have some control over the conversation. Before Narcissa could say anything, he asked her, "Does this neighborhood have wizards and witches other than you and Draco living in it?"

Narcissa grinned at that. "You don't really want to know, do you?" she countered.

Harry tried to communicate his genuine concern as honestly as he could, leaving his expression unguarded, and trying to keep his hands from fluttering about distractlingly as he spoke. "Actually, I do. When Professor Snape and I apparated into your neighborhood, I... sensed... other wizards here. As though they lived here, permanently. And that... somehow... you and the muggles had found some way to exist alongside each other. That, maybe, Draco could carry his broomstick out and no one would look at him twice..."

Until he had given the example of Draco and the broomstick, Narcissa had paid little attention to Harry's story. She interrupted his last statement with a question of her own. "Have you been watching us, Harry?"

The inquiry took him aback. "No. No, Ma'm, I haven't," he insisted.

"You got awfully close to the truth for a guess, then," Narcissa teased. Seeing that Harry was merely confused by the teasing, she explained, "Draco has carried his broomstick out of the house several times - although he hasn't flown it down the street. He is out today, at a club for wizards, flying. He will be carrying his broomstick home this afternoon, and if past experience is any guide, none of the muggles will think there is anything strange about that."

"Is it..." Harry began, and wondered if his question would be improper. Almost immediately, he decided that he was here to learn exactly how to tell that sort of thing. He continued with his question, "Is it good to live here?"

Narcissa wasn't going to let such a vague question stand. "How do you mean?" she asked politely, but with a hint of impatience, as though there were a number of ways that such an inquiry could be offensive.

Harry hadn't been thinking of asking whether this small house compared to Malfoy Manor, or whether living as the Blacks compared to the social activity of being the Malfoys. With an earnest expression, he tried to clarify what he had meant. "There are wizards as well as muggles here, living together... for the most part ignoring each other, I guess. I was raised by muggles, and I've lived at Hogwarts. This is different. I had never imagined a place like this. I thought everything was either Hogsmeade, with no muggles; or Little Whinging, with no wizards. So I wondered: is it... good? Is it pleasant? Would you consider staying here? Would you recommend it to anyone else? Do you know any of the other wizards in the neighborhood?"

"That's a great many questions, young man," Narcissa scolded in mock seriousness. To her relief, she saw that Harry understood her teasing this time, and that he smiled at her gentle rebuke. She had begun to worry that the boy was too stiff-necked to understand sarcasm or irony. That would have been a tremendous obstacle to overcome. Since he seemed loose enough to understand when he was being teased, he would be a lot easier to work with. "Our situation when we moved here was quite dire," she explained. "I had no idea whether the Ministry would pursue us, or whether our attempt to go underground would meet with any success. In keeping with those doubts, we stayed very much to ourselves - which is an attitude much more understood and tolerated on the Continent than it is in England. Back at home, I might have expected the Welcome Wagon, or some such community-sponsored effort, to make an official greeting. And the other residents of the neighborhood might well have showed up, curious to know the particulars of their new neighbors. Nothing of the sort happened here. Does the fact that wizards and muggles share the neighborhood have something to do with everyone's respect for our privacy? I don't know. That would be an interesting question to pursue, once we have become a little more settled in to this new place. But for now, neither Draco nor I have introduced ourselves to our neighbors - wizard or muggle."

Harry was astounded. Not so much at the substance of what Narcissa had said, but because he had asked a rather personal question of an adult - and he had gotten an answer. An answer which didn't try to gloss over the Malfoys' difficulties, and which admitted that Harry himself might have been on to something with his own earlier questions. Elated by his apparent success so far, he asked outright for advice. "I have been learning a lot, lately, thanks to Professor Snape and Remus Lupin. It seems like too much to remember, most of the time. I wondered if you could tell me: when you're a hostess for famous people at really big parties... how do you remember who they all are?"

Narcissa laughed out loud, and Harry was amazed at how pretty the sound was. She really sounded relaxed and amused, not sarcastic or derisive at all. "I can tell you've learned a few things from the way you asked that," she told him. "Famous people are frequently insecure, and - more often than you might think - they are very self-conscious. Remembering who they are is a very important first step in preventing a pleasant evening from turning into a disaster."

Narcissa described some simple mnemonics she had used to keep elusive names in mind, and after that she and Harry discussed many particulars of social functions, from the formal (the easiest, Narcissa claimed, since one had rules to follow and people knew what to expect) to the casual (the most difficult, in Narcissa's opinion, since people had to be encouraged to relax sufficiently to actually be casual).

After a couple of hours had passed in that way, Narcissa stopped her lecturing about some of the formal aspects of wizard society and studied her student for a long moment. Just as Harry was beginning to get uncomfortable under the scrutiny, she asked, "Is there something... particularly... fascinating on my forehead?"

Harry realized that almost any answer he could give could be construed as an insult. He couldn't decide what poor choice might be the best thing to say. He finally just blurted out, "Not especially, no. Why do you ask?"

Narcissa laughed again. Harry liked the sound a lot. "Because the last time I saw you, I felt like you were trying to climb into my dress. Today, your eyes have been fixed on something right between my eyebrows."

"No," Harry replied simply. "On your eyes, actually. You know you're attractive, you don't need me to remind you of that... especially by ogling you while you're trying to help me. Your eyes are as beautiful as the rest of you, and it makes a lot more sense to stay focused on them while we're talking. It helps me to get the most out of what you're saying."

"Harry, that's very sweet," Narcissa said with a gentle smile. "Though it does sound like you've been practicing... Have you found a girlfriend yet? Have you been trying out sweet things to say to her?"

Harry responded to Narcissa's smile with a calculating look. "Last time I saw you, you were much more concerned with my experiencing sex than in having an emotional relationship."

"With good reason," Narcissa assured him. "A young man under stress needs as much stability as possible in as many facets of his life as he can secure them. You, in particular, have had some of the most basic stabilizers removed from your life. Your parents are dead. You can no longer trust the Headmaster of your school, who was an important father substitute for many years. You have not been able to recruit your best friends into your current efforts - for very good reasons. Your stability, in short, is in jeopardy. Having a satisfying sex life can give a measure of confidence to a young man that nothing else in the world can give. If it helps you learn how to say sweet things, then all the better. But my concern is a valid one. And my question still stands, though I'll put it more bluntly this time. Have you been having sex with anyone?"

Harry felt a number of things as Narcissa questioned him. He knew he was embarrassed, but he didn't feel his face flushing hot. He was very self-conscious, but he did not look away. He was intimidated by the experienced, worldly woman facing him, but he answered her as confidently as he could. "Let us presume for a moment that the answer to your question is yes. You know the kinds of things that can go wrong when a couple plays that way... especially with my luck. I'm sure you're familiar with a few of my more public misfortunes, but I doubt that you realize just what a lightning rod for disaster I really am... have been all my life. So let's just say that I 'got lucky,' and spent a wonderful, stress-relieving evening or two losing my virginity. But let's also be realistic and say that the rest of my luck stays as bad as ever. Here are some of the concerns we... or at least I... will have to deal with - over and above Voldemort, Dumbledore and Fudge. How will I avoid worrying that I have made my lover pregnant? And why should I put myself into a position of having to worry about that? Why should I have to treat the conception of my first child as a problem rather than something joyful? What shall we do with the pregnant girl when she joins me during the crucial public relations segment of my campaign? What will we do with the baby? I won't have time to be even a part-time father - the baby's mother will be left with all of the work of raising our child. And how will we protect the two of them when my enemies decide to strike at me where I am most vulnerable? Will my 'consort' be hidden away in a bunker somewhere? Will my son or daughter be disguised when going out to play? Oh... but I'm getting ahead of myself. Before the pregnant girlfriend becomes public knowledge - long before the birth of my child, I'll be needing the attentions of a very specialized mediwitch; someone who understands sexually transmitted diseases particularly well. Syphilitic monarchs are a staple of history, but having the champion of the New Age collapse from AIDS before he is able to defeat his most outstanding enemies is completely unacceptable. And speaking of unacceptable: who do you imagine I have been having sex with? Someone well-educated, whose family is a staple of wizard society? Someone over the legal age of consent, which would make her older than I am myself? Someone with the kind of poise and confidence in public that would enable her sanity to withstand the kind of media pressure I'll be under... if I'm successful? Or that would allow her to deal with my death and get on with her own life if I'm not? Who do you think that might be, Ms. Black? Let me tell you an interesting story. The youngest child of Arthur Weasley - his only daughter, Ginny - came on to me very strongly last time I visited the Weasley home. Of course, her parents were there, and I had only a limited time to stay. But she made no secret of the fact that she wanted to date me. If I had wanted nothing more than someone to stick it into, I could have had her asking 'please' for it. Now, Ms. Black, tell me your impression. Is Ginny Weasley the kind of girlfriend you had in mind when you suggested I should go and get laid?"

Narcissa had to admit that the Weasley girl was not what she had in mind.

"Then think of this. When Ginny sat next to me, made suggestive comments to me, walked with me and put her arm around me - I was completely flummoxed. It's not that I don't understand the mechanics of sex. It's actually that I wanted to tell Ginny 'No' - in a way that wouldn't insult her or make it impossible for us to be friends any more. It's certainly not that I don't like her. I love all of the Weasleys at least a little bit. Molly is like a mother to me. I love her a lot. Ron's my best friend. And Ginny is brave, tough and resilient. And pretty. But she's inappropriate, and even if I did have sex with her, I wouldn't be able to stay with her, and I think you can see why. And seriously, I think that if I did have sex with her and then dumped her, I'd have a bigger problem with my 'focus' and my 'stability' than if I had stayed celibate. And I would have lost a friend and possibly put her in danger from anyone who hated me enough to try to hurt me though people who were close to me. And if Ginny Weasley, my long-time friend whose family I love, can make me feel all flummoxed with no more than a suggestive comment... think of what an educated, adult sophisticate would do to me."

Narcissa was impressed by the maturity of Harry's explanation, although there was still something puzzling about it. He was a teenaged boy, and for a young man of that age to turn down a potential sexual liaison such as the Weasley girl had offered was extraordinarily strange. In her kindliest, most sympathetic voice, she asked, "Harry? Do you prefer boys, dear?"

Harry glared back at her in disgust. "No, I do not prefer boys. When I said Ginny was pretty, I meant it. Pretty, sexy, desirable, hot... if I weren't the Boy Who Lived, I'd probably already be worried about whether she was pregnant. Actually, if you want an insight into what I do prefer, you should go back to Hogwarts and look up a Ravenclaw by the name of Cho Chang. She's great. And smart. And a fantastic quiddich player."

"Well?" Narcissa prompted with a sly smile.

"I tried," Harry said bitterly. "She was Cedric Diggory's girlfriend. I represent her lover's death. Every time we were alone together, she cried. It was not pleasant." Harry could see that Narcissa was looking at him a little differently, now. Perhaps having a bad experience, such as he had gone through with Cho, counted at least a little toward making up for the lack of the kind of experience she thought he should have. "So let's just say 'Forget it,' to the whole idea of finding me a girlfriend, all right? I don't need someone I'll have to get rid of soon. I don't need someone pregnant with my child. I certainly don't need venereal disease. And I will need someone publically acceptable if I am successful with this ambition you're helping me with. People like their leaders married, I understand."

Narcissa regarded Harry with a great deal of sympathy. The boy had already resigned himself to a 'state marriage' to someone whose acceptability as a public figure would be more important than her attraction for... or to... him. She leaned close to him and began to tell a story she knew about the wife of the former Minister of Magic. They were both laughing when Draco walked in, broomstick over one shoulder.

At the sound of the door, Narcissa merely looked up, surprised that so much time had passed, but Harry smiled broadly and stood with his hand out. "Hello, Draco," he said smoothly. "Good to see you."

Draco's heart cried out to insult this twit, to challenge him, to drive the intruder from his home. But the young Malfoy could see his mother looking at him expectantly, and he knew that Potter was - hard as this may have been to believe - key to Snape's plans... which included assassinating the Dark Lord Voldemort. If the insufferable Gryff could be the weapon that struck such a powerful blow, if he could be the tool to advance the plans of Severus Snape, and destroy the bastard who had failed to help Lucius despite owing so much to the elder Malfoy, then Draco would force himself to tolerate the hateful presence of the Boy Who Lived. With a shudder, hardly believing that he was actually doing it, Draco reached out and shook Potter's hand. Visibly laboring to force out the word, he croaked, "Potter," and could say no more.

Harry's smile did not dim in the least. "Your mother and I were just..."

"Ah, ah," Narcissa cut him off, wagging a warning finger. "You don't share everything, Harry. Some things remain private."

Draco wanted to scream. 'What things? Why private? My mother and you were just... WHAT?' But he knew a Narcissa lesson when he saw one. This was obviously an exercise in self control. His mother had most likely interrupted when she had because whatever she and Potter had been doing was so innocuous. Forcing himself to relax and pasting an unconvincing smile onto his face, Draco murmured, "Sorry to have interrupted, then."

"Not at all," Harry picked up the conversation smoothly. "We were quite finished, anyway."

Draco could barely contain himself. 'Finished with what?' he wanted to shout, but instead concentrated on presenting an unruffled exterior. He knew that his mother would be critiquing his performance as soon as they were alone again. Draco was so focused on trying to control his appearance, he nearly missed what Potter was saying.

"...seems you've been out flying. Where can you go around here that could give you the opportunity to fly?"

Draco was so upset by having his own home invaded by Potter that his mind went temporarily, but very completely, blank. Flying? What was the puny git talking about? Oh... right. My broom, here on my shoulder. I'm still holding it. I was at the Club... yes, that's it. Flying at the Club. Draco had nearly marshalled enough of a coherent thought to form an answer when Snape walked into the room, and Draco's mind switched from blank to overdrive. Here were the key players in the plot that he had been begging the Weasleys to reveal. To buy some more time, Draco switched into automatically polite mode. He wouldn't have to waste effort on thinking as he made a standard greeting. "Pardon me, Potter. Professor Snape! Good to see you. I hope you are well."

"Well enough," Snape drawled. "But I believe you were talking about flying."

'Damn,' though Draco. 'He's distracting me from asking about him and what he's been doing.' But Draco was determined to switch the focus back to his guests as quickly as possible. "I was down at the local Club that sponsors the local Xenophon Coursing. They have a good course - but the obstacles are all shut down for... practice. It would require too much effort to keep them all active non-stop."

"Are you familiar with Xenophon Coursing, Harry?" Narcissa asked sweetly.

"Not at all," Harry replied with a grateful smile. "What sort of obstacles are there, Draco? And what do you mean, 'Active?' Is it all magical, or are there mekanix involved?"

Draco nearly bit his tongue to prevent his natural response from spilling out. What a perfect chance to berate this low-born ignoramus! The central sport of wizard society; the quiddich of the aristocracy; and this ill-cultured lout didn't even know of its existence. 'He doesn't even have the excuse of being ignorant of sport in general,' Draco thought bitterly. 'He plays quiddich. He should know.' But Harry stood there, waiting politely for an explanation, and both adults were watching Draco, judging his performance. Despairing of ever getting to ask Snape anything, Draco began to explain. "Xenophon is a cross-country race on brooms..."

Fifteen minutes later, Draco was still lecturing. Harry was clearly enjoying the story, and Malfoy had no difficulty identifying the hungry look in Potter's eyes. The Boy Who Lived really wanted to get out onto a working Xenophon course. Draco kept trying to cut his own story short, anxious to ask Snape about his recent activities, but the potions professor kept prompting Draco with requests for further details about the aristocratic sport, and not wanting to offend, Draco explained... and explained... and explained some more. Once Draco had finished his discourse, and was about to change the subject to something he was interested in, Potter grinned broadly and said, "I'd like to go with you some time. I could bring my broom, we could fly together... or, more likely, against each other. You and I had some good contests as opposing seekers. Maybe we would be a good match on the Course, as well."

Draco chewed the inside of his mouth to keep from blurting out his natural response to that. 'Good contests, my arse,' he thought sourly. 'Only good for you because you won them all.' Instead, he adopted an apologetic look and rather sorrowfully said, "Harry... it's a Club. It's by and for the upper crust. I mean... it would be rather awkward to show up with your broom, and without a membership." Draco's heart warmed as he saw Harry's face fall.

"Draco," Narcissa interjected sweetly, "isn't there a Public Day coming up soon?"

Draco's heart froze. His mother's threat was clear. He would tell Potter about the next available Public Day or she would tell the boy that today had been just such an event. There was nothing to do but put the best possible face on his defeat. "Why, yes, I believe there is," he said with a smile, as though just remembering the possibility himself. "Why don't you come round Tuesday next, and we'll take a flight over the course. The obstacles will be inactive, but the course is quite extensive, and you will have a chance to see the features, even though they will be shut down."

"Thanks, Draco, I'd really like that," Harry smiled. The very sight of that beaming face made Draco furious. It was as though Potter couldn't help but be grotesquely irritating, even when he was trying to show gratitude.

"You know," Narcissa added with a sly smile, "since Harry is heir to the Potter fortune, maybe we ought to look into getting him a membership."

Draco's voice failed him. "The what?" he whispered.

Narcissa's voice was very dry. "He's rich, Draco. The Potter fortune is quite extensive, and at least a portion of it has been managed by Gringotts for the past decade and a half. Even the pile that just sat and drew interest is still fairly sizable."

Struggling to engage his voice once again, Draco sputtered and choked out, "But... Club memberships cost thousands of galleons..."

Harry shrugged. "What? Do they want it in gold? I could go to Gringotts and put it in a sack, I suppose..."

"What would even be better," Narcissa suggested, "is for you to contact a Club closer to where you're living. The Club based in Dublin... or the one in Edinburgh... are both very prestigious, and either one would be more convenient for you to get to for the occasional flight."

Harry was obviously far too excited by this prospect. Snape knew he needed to throw some cold water on his enthusiasm before it got out of control. "You will not be joining any Clubs just yet, boy. You have serious business to attend to before you will have that much time for play."

Draco saw his chance to finally steer the conversation in the way he wanted it to go. "What serious bus..." But his mother smoothly overrode him.

"Why not, Severus? Joining will take almost no time... Harry will be accepted on name recognition alone, so long as he has the fees ready. Any Club would be glad to have him. In Britain especially, the Boy Who Lived would be a coup for any Club. And if Harry holds a Club membership, he would providing the more conservative citizens one more sign that he is the kind of man they can trust."

Snape's voice dripped with scorn. "He would need an address. Or shall we simply list 'In Hiding' as our general delivery guidelines for owl post? Or perhaps the membership committee would be impressed with our boy's family home in Little Whinging."

"You could list Hogwarts," Harry suggested innocently. "I was there all summer, and when I go back for next term..."

"You must be joking," Snape interrupted coldly. "You cannot afford to place yourself within reach of the Headmaster of that school. Not now - not until you have accomplished much of your larger plan. You will definitely not be returning to Hogwarts for your sixth year."

Draco savored the look of disappointment and loss on Potter's face. He wished he could photograph it and save the moment forever. To make the occasion perfect, he only wished that Snape would talk more about his 'larger plan.' But Draco's expression changed to one of worry and dismay at Snape's next comment.

"I won't be returning to Hogwarts either. Now that the Headmaster has openly placed an active Death Eater on staff, and drawn the wrath of the Ministry down on to the campus... again... there's no way I could report for work at the beginning of the term and avoid the aurors, the interrogation, the veritaserum, and the resulting disaster. The official report will have to list me as 'missing in Brazil while searching for Bambaroot,' or some such romantic fiction."

Narcissa nodded, completely understanding the necessity for Snape's decision. But her mind was still occupied with the advantages Harry could gain by a simple tie to upper class tradition such as an association with a Xenophon Club would give him. "Severus, why don't you submit an application for Club membership in Harry's name, and list Hogwarts as his address, even if he's not going back to school?" Narcissa said thoughtfully. "He wouldn't have to actually be there, after all... once he's a member, it's not as though they'll be sending him any mail - with the exception of the quarterly newsletter, which no one reads, anyway. And the issue that will go out immediately after Harry joins will most likely be filled with some variation on 'Boy Who Lived Now Part Of Our Club,' anyway. But I'm telling you they won't care where he's staying. Harry is a celebrity, and our Clubs... even the best of them... desperately need an infusion of interest, simply to hold on to the members they have, especially of late. They have gone shopping for entertainers and entrepreneurs - new money in every case - just to have some kind of novelty conversation piece around the banquet tables. Harry Potter? Drop the word he's interested, and the Clubs will be competing for him."

"We are hardly in a position to allow the volume of communication such competition requires," Snape grumbled.

"Then go to Dublin... or London - or wherever is convenient for you. Sign him up, get his name on the roll. Give him that bit of upper class caché that is so easy to obtain... and that will make such a difference when people look at him a few months from now."

"You plead your case passionately," Snape observed archly.

"Because I am in a position to know how seriously people can take these things. Do it, Severus. It will pay off for you in the end."

"I have asked for your advice. I suppose I would be foolish to ignore it," Snape admitted grudgingly. "Mister Potter, do you think that an investment of several thousand galleons in a Club membership might be wise?"

"Yes, Sir," Harry agreed eagerly. "It sounds great."

"You would have little time to go flying about the Club courses, you realize," Snape sneered.

"For now," Harry replied confidently. "Later, I'll either have the chance... or I'll be dead. Either way, the galleons couldn't be spent any more wisely."

"Very well. I'll find out what we need to do to make you a part of Club culture," Snape said. "For now, we must leave here. We have taken up a great deal of our hosts' time, and we have much to do at home.

"Right," Harry reluctantly agreed. He turned to Draco. "See you next Tuesday, then?"

Draco suppressed a shudder. "Certainly. Get here early morning and we'll go down for warm-ups before flying the course."

Harry very deliberately looked Narcissa directly in the eyes. "Thank you so much for my lesson. And for having me here. I really appreciate it."

"You're making tremendous progress, Harry," she purred in response. She leaned close to him. "The next thing you have to work on..." her voice dropped to a near whisper. "...is not to be so obvious."

Harry flushed with embarrassment, but as Narcissa leaned back, he kept his eyes focused directly on hers. "I'm glad you think I am making progress. If I am, it's because you're a good teacher. And I've had the best help from Professor Snape and Remus. You've all been great."

Snape gathered Harry close to him, wrapping his arms tightly around the boy. "Good day, Draco. Narcissa." With a bang, they were gone.

As soon as they had disappeared, Draco said with amazement, "Why in God's name does he dress like that?"

His mother raised an eyebrow and disbelievingly said, "I beg your pardon."

"His robes are never anything but standard issue blacks, but his muggle clothes... did you see what he had on? Scruffy, ill-fitting, old... he has thousands of galleons to join any one of the world's most prestigious Clubs, and he dresses like poverty's little brother."

"I don't know," Narcissa said dismissively. "Why don't you ask him next Tuesday when you go flying together?"

Draco ignored the jibe, and countered with a question of his own. "What was all that, Mother? Snape and Potter... not returning to Hogwarts... you?"

"Professor Snape and I are trying our best to help raise young Potter into proper society."

"Why!?"

"Because that is where he belongs. Harry's heritage includes a long line of wizard blood. And the Potter money is very, very old money."

"So is ours," Draco snapped back defensively.

"Not anymore," Narcissa pointed out, and waited for the import of that to sink in. "So you had better cultivate the proper friendships, Draco. Mister Potter could well be an important stepping stone to help you return to the society you have lost."


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Albus Dumbledore's plans for the upcoming term at Hogwarts were not unfolding as he had hoped they would. The task he had intended to complete first this summer had been finding a professor to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. He had thought it would be simple enough, and had made arrangements for sorting through the expected crush of applicants for the job. The crush had not come. He had then contacted several promising candidates personally. The promising candidates had not been interested. He recontacted each of them in turn, asking more pointed questions about the choice each had made not to pursue employment at Hogwarts. The answers he received gave him food for thought. By the time he had interviewed the last of his once-promising potential professors, he had received a banquetful of it.

None of the teachers he interviewed were insulting to him, personally. None of them were unaware of Hogwarts' proud history and its importance to the development of young wizards and witches throughout Britain. None seemed to take the slanderous comments of Minister Fudge nor the libelous writings of the Daily Prophet very seriously.

Nevertheless, not one was interested in the job.

Dumbledore was well experienced in the field of diplomacy, and he had been a school headmaster for many years. These experiences had taught him that diplomats and insecure children had a number of things in common, and one of those things was a reluctance to say what they really meant. The children often resorted to saying 'I don't know' when they were hesitant to talk about something which they may have known very well, but which made them uncomfortable. With diplomats, the obfuscation was often much more impenetrable. But because he had needed to understand both children and diplomats, Dumbledore had become a master of reading between the lines, and listening between the statements.

Paying such attention to the candidates he interviewed early that summer, Dumbledore began to worry.

Some of the hesitance he encountered was due to the recent history of the Defense Against the Dark Arts position itself. To many, that position seemed to be a one-year-only kind of job. But it was not simply a lack of job security that bothered the potential professors. More than that, it was the ways in which the most recent Defense teachers had left the position. No one wanted to be fired, or to be forced from the job by a storm of parental protests, or to lose their minds, or to be kidnapped and locked in a trunk. And while some of those fears showed a limited or confused understanding of the actual circumstances under which the previous professors had actually departed, there was enough truth in those vague impressions that the Headmaster could not effectively argue them away. Not that he ever got the chance to argue about... or even discuss... any of them. The candidates did not cite those feelings as reasons, they didn't bring the subjects up as objections, but Dumbledore could tell from the things that his interviewees did say that such negative thoughts had crossed their minds.

And from that point, things became even worse.

Albus could recall a time, not long ago - no more than two or three decades in the past - when anyone with the academic qualifications to do so had competed for the opportunity to teach at Hogwarts. The Headmaster had enjoyed the freedom of choosing from the best practitioners of every magical field, and could make his selections based on how well the expert could teach. His staff had been the envy of the academic world, and rightfully so. McGonagall, Sprout, Flitwick, Snape - they were all brilliant, and were able to transfer their enthusiasm and love of their subjects to the students. To be sure, not every student took to every teacher. Snape frightened some students, McGonagall intimidated others... even Sprout could be overwhelming at times. But so far as Dumbledore was concerned, those exceptions were a perfectly acceptable price to pay in exchange for a staff of brilliant, powerful, dedicated, gifted teachers.

But somewhere along the line, the supply of eager applicants began to dry up. The Headmaster was forced to choose those who were willing to accept a teaching position, rather than those he would have most liked to have on his staff. Trelawney was a prime example. A competent enough witch in general, she had made a total of one true prediction before becoming Hogwarts' Professor of Divination. Dumbledore had never put much faith in the efficacy of divination, anyway. But given the choice, he would have liked to have someone on staff who had proven a bit more reliable. He wasn't afforded that choice. Professor Binns was another case in point. After the History Professor had died, his lectures had become even drier and more... well, more lifeless... than they had been when he was living. Dumbledore would have replaced him, or even gone so far as to employ two Professors of Magic History if Binns had insisted on continuing. But it seemed that no one was interested in taking the dead man's place.

Seven or eight years ago, the situation had become even more serious when Albus had been forced to settle for Professor Quirrel as the teacher for Hogwarts' Defense Against the Dark Arts classes. Quirrel was an absolute disaster, of course, and Lockhart was little better. The building crisis had spread to yet another Department when the Headmaster had needed to fill the vacancy left by the retirement of the former Care of Magical Creatures professor. When Albus finally realized that there was no one outside of the school who was willing to serve in that capacity, he had been forced to admit how desperate he had become. Rubeus Hagrid was a good man, an exemplary employee, and a kind-hearted person truly gifted with the ability to care for magical creatures. But the half-giant had never had a prayer of being an effective teacher, and his tenure as Professor was as unsatisfying as might have been expected.

And now, with the Defense Against the Dark Arts professorship open once again, no one seemed willing to entertain a thought of coming to teach at Hogwarts.

Professor Sprout's resignation had been an unfortunate addition to the burden. But surprisingly, the solution that had presented itself so quickly had allowed him to accomplish two goals with a single action. He hired Professor Sepal to teach Herbology, and automatically gained another window into Voldemort's plans and actions. The simple combination of veritaserum and obliviation was a technique that could have been repeated many times had Professor Sprout not drawn Sepal's attention to his missing memories of that first crucial afternoon. Dumbledore did not regret doing it. He only wished that he could have done it more often. Especially since the Ministry's eagerness to catch the new professor meant that Sepal would inevitably be lost to Hogwarts one way or another. Either he would be arrested, or he would simply refuse to return to the campus in order to avoid being arrested. Either way, his value as a resource was gone.

Which brought up the necessity of finding yet another professor of Herbology to replace Sepal. And once again, as in the case of the Defense Professorship, there were no more applicants to be found.

As he pondered his twin dilemmas of filling two staff posts from a pool of zero candidates, the Headmaster received a curious missive by owl post. A truly immense owl - one of the largest that Dumbledore had ever seen - dropped off a scroll written entirely in Portuguese. It took Albus a while to adjust to the language... he always had trouble with Portuguese since he habitually tried to read it as though it were Spanish. He noted the return address, which was that of the Berimbau Canoe Livery and River-Trekking Supply Company in Sao Paulo, Brazil. After a few false starts with the main text of the message, he gave up and cast legerelingua. The meaning of the scroll's text became clear to him. The story it told was extremely disturbing.

_Headmaster Dumbledore;_

_Monday last, three of your employees, Professor Severus Snape,_

_Professor Remus Lupin, and Aide Harry Potter, hired one of our_

_watercraft for a three-day excursion through our local inland_

_waterways. The craft was due back the day before yesterday,_

_yet your employees have not returned it to us. Locator charms_

_have failed to give us any information as to their whereabouts._

_Their security deposit is therefore forfeit. However, such_

_deposit is only intended to cover minor damage to the craft_

_which may occur during regular operation. Since your employees_

_have not returned the craft at all, we are billing you for the_

_remainder of its value. Please remit one hundred thirty galleons_

_before September first to avoid further legal action._

_Thank you in advance for your cooperation,_

_João Pessoa, Proprietor, Berimbau_.

The owl glared at Dumbledore balefully. The Headmaster summoned a house elf and sent him off to find mice and water for the bird. This was a thoughtful offering, but the owl was obviously waiting for a reply, and no amount of rodent bribery would dissuade the creature from getting a reply with which to return to its home. Dumbledore sighed and wrote out a bank draught. At least the company Severus had chosen was in a cosmopolitan place like Sao Paulo. A Gringotts bank draught would be honored there as easily as it would be anywhere in the world where sufficient numbers of wizards did business.

Dumbledore realized immediately that the galleons were a small price to pay for the security of his potions professor. He seriously doubted that any of 'his three employees' had been injured in this escapade. There was almost no chance that Severus would have taken Remus - and certainly not Harry - along with him on a dangerous hunt for potion ingredients in the wilds of Brazil. It could not have been a coincidence that Severus' sudden absence came immediately prior to the arrival of the first of the Ministry inspection teams. So the Headmaster could take heart in his near-certainty of the continued safety of both adults, as well as that of the single most powerful weapon he could bring to bear against Voldemort, Harry Potter. If he filed an official report stating that Snape was missing, and citing the letter from the Berimbau Company as evidence, the Ministry teams would stop asking for interviews with the potions professor. And once this latest difficult patch with the Ministry was worked out - either through the arrest of Aaron Sepal, or by Sepal's thorough disappearance - Severus could return to Hogwarts and resume his duties... both academic and otherwise.

But no matter how the situation had come about, the fact of the matter was that Hogwarts was about to start a new term with three professorships unfilled. And now that Remus Lupin was officially 'missing' along with Snape, it would be impossible to have him stand in as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher until a permanent replacement could be found. This called for immediate action, and Dumbledore began to write out a short letter while the transatlantic owl enjoyed his meal of mice. Once the big bird was gone, carrying away the Gringotts bank draught, Albus summoned another from the owlery, and sent off his missive.

-

The next morning, Albus Dumbledore stepped out of a comfortably wide, tall hearth into a broad, sparsely furnished living room, one wall of which was almost completely glass, giving a spectacular view of a huge yard filled with a riot of robust plant life. The Headmaster had expected to find Pomona Sprout in the room somewhere, but instead he saw only the woman who had answered the floo when he had called to thank Pomona for agreeing to see him, and to say he was about to step through. Rather than robes, or the practical garden aprons Sprout loved so much, this woman was dressed in a muggle-style outfit; a rather severe grey suit with a skirt that reached mid-calf and a matching jacket. Her crisp white blouse was buttoned high on her throat, and the tiny flecks of gold on her earlobes that were her only jewelry did not distract from her businesslike appearance. Albus smiled in his most grandfatherly way and said, "Ah... well... that is... I was expecting to find Pomona Sprout, here... you understand. May I...?"

"I am Madame Sprout's secretary," the woman replied, ignoring the Headmaster's raised eyebrow when she did not provide her own name. "I'll show you through. This way, please."

Dumbledore followed Sprout's secretary through the broad living room, past an expansive dining area, down a wide hallway and into a very traditional mud room, in which several pair of Wellington boots were standing near the doorway. There were also coats and cloaks hung on wooden pegs along both side walls, and a shelf that held a number of sweaters, neatly folded. The secretary opened the door and waved Albus on through. He stepped out into a showplace of a garden, with blooming plants displaying bursts of color in every direction he looked.

And there, grafting a new branch onto a small tree, was Pomona Sprout. Dumbledore heard the door close behind him. The secretary had left the two alone for their meeting. Sprout looked up, wearing a broad, beaming smile. When she saw Albus, she waved and went back to work on the graft. By the time Dumbledore had walked to her side, she had finished her project and turned to greet him with a satisfied sigh. "Hello, Albus. If my guess is right, the fruit I'll harvest from this tree next year will be truly..." She paused, trying to think of a way to describe it. Then she laughed, a relaxed, easy sound, and explained, "Let's just say it will be different from anything you've ever eaten before. And probably better than most. How are you... and why are you visiting so soon?"

"Well... as far as the visiting... I may have miscalculated, just a bit. That is... I didn't mean to interrupt you at work, Pomona. I had thought to pay my visit to your home."

Sprout laughed again, a happy laugh without sarcasm or derision. "This is my home, Albus. And my work, for the most part. What you're looking at right now is my own, personal garden. I've always loved color. I got interested in gardening in the first place because I loved color. At school, there was never time for bright blossoms - we were always starting seeds, starting cuttings... always interested in the bark, in the roots, in the greenery. Here, I've put in my favorites - and they're doing wonderfully well! I had wondered whether I had forgotten how to grow regular flowers for fun. But I have not forgotten, and this garden is the proof of it. The experimental gardens are on the far side of the house, and the arboretum is around the side."

"Ah, yes..." Albus said, looking all around him, but unable to take in all of the personal garden from one viewpoint. "I met your... mmmm..."

"Oh, Amelia?" Pomona finished for him, smiling broadly. "She's wonderful. She leaves me on my own out here - she knows who's in charge of the growing. But as far as doing the rest of the work that this job involves, the research and the record keeping... I couldn't do it without her. She anticipates what I am going to need. I'll reach for a marker, and she'll offer me one. I'll need to check a record or a chart, and she's already pulled it. I think she may be a mind reader." In response to Dumbledore's indulgent smile, she insisted, "No, I really think she may be a naturally gifted telepathic - I don't know. But between the two of us, we have organized this entire place in record time. If I were to disappear from the face of the Earth tomorrow, anyone who knew anything about Herbology would be able to look at my files and tell exactly what I was doing, where I was in each experiment, and what I had planned to do next."

"You sound as though you may have the... hrmm... occasional free hour... ah... of a day," Dumbledore suggested with a curious look.

Sprout returned his look with a wistful smile and shook her head. "All these long years and you never have understood, have you? Herbology offers no careers that can be measured by a time clock. On many days, I wish there were more of me, and I run as hard as I can simply to prevent disasters from becoming worse. Other days, I have time to putter in my garden... and to think. That is part of what I am paid for, you know - thinking."

"That is... ah... what I have come to see you about," Albus ventured hesitantly. "I was hoping you could... hrmm... do some... thinking... for me."

"Let's give it a try, shall we?" Sprout said, leading the way to a cleared area surrounded by thick shrubbery. The ground was paved with stones separated by bands of thick black soil, and there was a table with two broad-seated wooden chairs set casually upon the stones. Pomona offered her guest a chair and settled comfortably into the other. "What's on your mind?"

"As you may be aware," Albus began, with an ironic twist to his lip, "the Ministry has taken a rather intense interest in Aaron Sepal. I have had to make plans for next term beginning without his presence. Therefore, I have once again opened the position of Herbology professor at Hogwarts to qualified applicants." He sat silently for a moment, while Sprout simply watched him, waiting. He blinked slowly and said, "There have been no applicants, qualified or otherwise." If Dumbledore expected a protest, or an expression of surprise, he was disappointed. Pomona continued to watch, waiting for the story to continue. "I was hoping that... you... could... ah... tell me why this might be so."

Sprout looked at the Headmaster with a pitying expression. Quietly, very gently, she asked, "Don't you know why that is?" Dumbledore only looked baffled. Sprout sighed and searched for the words to explain. "Schools get known for many things, Albus. Their academic quality and their specialist teachers are part of that. But schools are also known for their political stances, as well. Hogwarts is a secondary school, not a university, so it won't become well known for its research, or for student activism the way most universities become known. But the parents who send their children are very aware of a school's political bias, and that can often be a very good thing. After the last war, having Albus Dumbledore leading the staff was a guarantee that your school would be the staunchest anti-Voldemort institution available. That was a good thing. People want to feel safe about sending their children to school, and having Hogwarts be dead-set against Voldemort made parents feel safe in sending their children there. But in the intervening years - especially the past five years or so - you have sent another message about what it means to have Albus Dumbledore as head of the staff. Teachers have expectations and desires regarding the places they work, just as parents have them about the places their children attend. The message you have sent to every professional educator in the western world is that Hogwarts is one man's school. And that one man rules it with an iron fist."

Dumbledore's look of dismay sent a stab of regret through Pomona, but when the Headmaster began to sputter a protest, she cut him off immediately.

"And." She waited for the sputtering to dwindle to silence. "That iron-fisted man is not particularly trustworthy."

Outrage replaced dismay on Albus' face. "Now see here..."

"Don't," Sprout interrupted harshly. She held his gaze until his protest was silenced. "You have brought your problem to me," she explained in a hard, dry voice. "And you do have a problem - a bigger one than you may have realized. If you want to solve that problem, you are going to have to deal with it. You cannot blackmail it, or intimidate it, or distract it with an attractive diversion while you entangle it in your schemes." Dumbledore opened his mouth, and something in his manner, something in the arrogance with which he prepared to rise to his own defense, set Sprout's anger off. "Don't you deny any of that!" she spat. "You can argue your motivations with a philosopher, or defend your methods to a judge. That's up to you. But don't bother to draw breath to claim that you don't engage in blackmail, intimidation or misdirection. You do. You may have had good reasons for what you did. You may have been remarkably discreet in what you did for someone in such a publicly visible position as you are. But when you operate like that for years and years, eventually the idea gets out. Not specifically enough, not with enough hard evidence, to convict you in a court of law. Just enough that no one who has any other option will consider coming to work for you. That's your problem, Albus. It's you."

The Headmaster sat in silence for a long time, thinking about what he had been told. Sprout waited patiently for him to go through that process. Finally, he nodded as though coming to a decision. He spread his hands, as if to show that he carried no weapons. He smiled, weakly, acknowledging that he had been stung by what he had heard. "That may be true," he admitted - clearly a difficult admission for him. "And my... very presence... may dissuade some young teacher from coming to Hogwarts to begin a career. But you know me... and you know - and love - our school. I am asking you... as a friend - and as a friend of Hogwarts - will you return to the school and teach one more term, to allow me the time to find a permanent replacement?"

Pomona looked at him. Then looked away. She met his eyes and tried to speak. She had no words, but she chuckled lightly as she searched for them. She took a deep breath, let it out. Laughed shortly. Met his eyes again. And laughed longer. She tried to say a word, but the word would not form. She was laughing, and could not stop. Helplessly, she struggled to say something, but the struggle itself was funny now, and she laughed harder. She closed her eyes, thought of something she would have liked to say, and laughed even harder. She held her sides, laughing. She wiped her eyes, fought for breath, said, "Alb..." and dissolved into gales of mirth. The garden rang with her voice. She could not look at the Headmaster at all, but still she continued to laugh. She hurt. She wished she could stop, but it was impossible. It wasn't the words Albus had used. It wasn't his expression or his posture or his tone that was so unbearably ridiculous. It was simply that he had come here and had asked her to teach one more term, while he searched for a replacement. And he was still here. And she had not been able to form the words to communicate a simple negative response because the whole situation was so unbearably hilarious. She wanted to tell him no, and have it over and done with. She wanted to send him away with the knowledge that she was not going to work for him, or with him, or alongside him, ever again. She began to wish for some relief from the fit of hilarity in which she was caught. And still she laughed.

Amelia appeared at Dumbledore's elbow. Face impassive, she offered to show him the way out.

"Oh, well... ah... we... that is... we were still talking..."

Sprout waved him away. She still couldn't look at him. Nor could she express her thanks to her secretary. She would have to remedy that later. For now, it would be enough if Albus would simply leave. She gasped for breath and forced out a word, "Please." She fought for another gasp of air and managed to nearly whisper, "Go." Then she thought of what Albus had asked and she was unable to say any more.

Amelia escorted Dumbledore back into the house and to the floo.

"May I make a call before I go?" Albus asked politely. Amelia nodded once, a single curt movement. The Headmaster sprinkled a pinch of floo powder and spoke clearly into the resulting sparkle, "Alastor Moody."

A swift conversation led to an invitation. Albus thanked the secretary for her help, and stepped through the floo into the home of retired auror Mad-Eye Moody.

-

Draco Malfoy felt horrible. He sat in his room, listening to the muted sounds of Wednesday morning traffic outside his window, concentrating on how horrible he felt. There were perfectly good reasons for him to feel horrible, he needed to make no excuses to anyone for feeling horrible, anyone in his position would feel horrible. So he sat scowling, meticulously reviewing those things which contributed to his horrible feeling.

First of all was France. Not the country itself, nor its people or its language or its famous cuisine, but the simple fact that he had to be here rather than at home, calling himself Black rather than Malfoy and staying as inconspicuous as possible rather than enjoying his freedom. His father was in jail, his fortune was lost to him and he would most likely never again see the interior of the great manor house he had always presumed he would inherit one day.

'And on top of all of this,' Malfoy grumbled to himself, 'Potter shows up.' Potter's fame as the Boy Who Lived was disgusting enough. Having Hogwarts cater to that fame was worse. Having all of Europe singing his praises after the TriWizard Tournament was even worse than that. But an invasion of his own home by Potter was a personal insult. Unfortunately, the adults who had welcomed Potter were his own mother and his own Head of House. Draco particularly felt the sting of having Snape chauffeuring Potter around. Draco may be forced to continue his education at Beauxbatons, but he had not even seen the school yet, and in his own mind, he was still very much a Slytherin of Hogwarts, and Potter was a target for Slytherin scorn, most expertly directed by the Slytherin Head of House, Draco's family friend, Severus Snape.

Draco thought of the previous day's events and fumed. Potter sitting there conversing with Narcissa as though the two were old chums. Snape holding Potter tightly and apparating away. Harry holding out his hand with a cheery greeting. And then the threat of Potter joining the local Club! Draco could only be thankful that there were at least three Clubs closer to where Potter would be living than the one near to the Blacks' new French home.

Or were there? Despite having Snape and Potter right in front of him in his own home, all Draco knew was that neither of those two were planning on returning to Hogwarts next term. So where were they living? If anyone were actually planning to fight against Voldemort, it might be prudent to base oneself outside of Britain, if only to have a secure place to which to retreat. But he had not been given that information. In fact, his family-friend Head-of-House had given him less, had included him less, had shown less trust in him, than the pair of Weasleys had done. That hurt.

Draco stood and stalked out of his room, grabbing his muggle-style jacket. Striding purposefully through the living room, he called out, "Mother! I'm going out!" Hearing a vague murmur in response, and not caring at all what Narcissa might have been saying, he snatched open the door and stomped through, slamming it behind him.

As satisfying as his stomping and slamming had been, once outside, Draco was at as much of a loss for what to do as he had been while lying in his room. He had some money, since he never allowed himself to be without a small quantity of francs and pounds and galleons at any time since his last mad dash to England. But the operative word there was 'small,' and even had he combined all three of the currencies he held, he would not have enough to do any satisfying shopping. He could walk into the downtown section of the muggle town to which his neighborhood was connected. He could order a coffee in one of the many variations of 'pub' that the French supported. There were cafés with sidewalk tables, casual restaurants that served breakfast all day, markets which put out chairs and tiny tables to allow their shoppers to rest... and every one of these establishments served coffee. Purchasing some varieties of the beverage allowed one to demand that an emptied cup be refilled at no extra charge. So long as one was not abrasive or obnoxious, a cup would be refilled quite routinely three or four times before the waiter would even inquire whether there were anything else the customer wanted. Draco had found that in the time it took him to sip his way through four cups of coffee, he could observe entire dramas acted out by the people near his table. Intellectual and political discussions, lovers fighting, and friends exaggerating their own accomplishments to one another were the kinds of entertainment that were going on constantly. And now that he had learned what to look for, Draco noticed a surprising number of clandestine transactions involving a wad of folded bills traded for a tiny package, performed with a kind of sleight of hand that was intended to keep observers from noticing. Obviously, Draco thought smugly, the sleight of hand does not work when there is a careful, perceptive observer on hand. When he had first seen such exchanges taking place, he had postulated a wide range of explanations for them; the people were spies, selling secrets, or they were a blackmailer and his victim, exchanging incriminating evidence for cash. When it finally dawned on him what was occurring, it was very disappointing. These were people who were selling and buying drugs. The high price and the small quantity of product should have tipped him off, but he really didn't feel bad about missing the clues. Drugs were still such a muggle activity that Draco didn't have the frame of reference to recognize it. He thought that both Crabbe and Goyle had taken drugs of some sort in the past... but with intellects such as theirs, who could tell whether they were stoned or just being normally stupid?

Draco smiled to himself thinking of some of the dumber things Vincent had done. But as aloof as he tried to keep himself, he soon had to admit that he really missed his friends, his classmates, his fellow Slytherins... even as stupid as some of them were. He decided that he needed some sort of contact with them, even if he had no time to escape to England just then. A Floo call would have to do. But where? He checked his clothing, decided that he could pass for a wealthy wizard dressed casually to mix amongst the muggles... which he was, after all... and thought he might get away with going to the Club and using the floo there.

When he stepped through the hedge, he glanced over the course and stopped dead in his tracks. The course was on. And riders were flying it.

He stared hungrily as water hazards sent geysers rocketing skyward. Hedges leapt from the ground and twisted to thwart the flyers' attempts to avoid striking them. Trees thrashed their branches - nothing like the Whomping Willow back home, but there was only one Willow, and there were dozens of these trees, all along the out of bounds lines, threatening to unseat any flyer who dared skirt the edges of the course. And riders did dare. They took curves at speeds that forced their brooms to the far outsides, where they darted between thrashing branches. They flew directly at the spinning hedges, leading the spin only slightly, passing the flying obstacle so closely that only a moment's delay or an instant's anticipation would result in their being hit. They circled the moving geysers and dashed past the swirling waterspouts closely enough to collect water on their riding gear. It was beautiful. It was hypnotic. It was spellbinding. And so Draco stood there, spellbound, as a large, beefy man stepped through the hedge and ran directly into his back.

Draco turned and apologized quickly. He asked the man whether he had been hurt, and apologized again. As the two of them walked toward the Clubhouse, Draco kept up his patter - alternately apologizing and rhapsodizing about how beautifully the riders were taking the course that day - until the man was laughing out loud and begging him to stop. He assured the boy that he was fine, that he had done much the same himself on occasion, stopping to watch rather than prudently stepping out of the way, and commended him on his excellent manners - and on his good command of French, since it was clear that the boy was a foreigner. Draco smiled and admitted that he was visiting from the English Club, and had yet to fly the course. By that time, they were at the Clubhouse entrance, and they passed by the desk clerks, talking like old friends. As they parted, Draco was satisfied that he had drawn no attention whatsoever, and he walked confidently to the floo, unchallenged.

As he picked up a pinch of Floo powder, Draco thought of his last call from here. He really didn't want to floo Goyle again, so Vincent it was. He sprinkled the powder while pronouncing "Vincent Crabbe, England," very crisply. There was a blur of locations shuffling through the connection in the hearth before him, then Vincent's living room, with the boy himself lounging in a chair, looking bored.

"Draco," Vincent cried, leaping up and dashing to the very front of his fireplace. "Can you come on through?"

Draco was sorely tempted, but he knew how difficult his situation would become if he did so. There would be no one to answer his return call here at the Club - and no one who would recognize him if anyone did respond to him simply shouting for attention. Getting back to the vicinity of his home would prove very difficult, and he had limited time. "No. Can't do it. How have you been?"

A grin split Vince's face. "This has been the greatest time of my life," he gushed. Remember how... Oh, no, you didn't... unless you heard from..."

Draco swiftly lost patience with Vince's muttering. "What are you on about, man?" he demanded fiercely, but quietly enough that he wouldn't draw attention to himself there in the Club.

"I've met..." Vince looked around his own living room, then tried to peer into the Club beyond Draco. "... The Big Man," he whispered with awe. "Snape took me. That is, he took me once, and I had a chat, and then a few days ago... well, more than a week, really... God, over two, I think... actually it was..."

"Hssst," Draco interrupted, drawing a surprised look from Crabbe. "Tell me... what... happened. Then we'll sort out when it was. Right?"

"Oh. Yeah. Well, Snape took me again. To see him. The Big Man. But this time... God, Draco, can't you come through? This is, like, secret stuff, you know? I can't just be..."

"Maybe tomorrow," Draco cut him off. "Just spit it out. I'm alone. For now. The quicker you talk, the safer we'll be."

"Right," Crabbe agreed uncertainly. "The Big Man gave me a portkey. I'm supposed to get the guys... you know, Greg, and you, and Chas and Boyd and Jordan and whoever else... really, as many more whoever elses as possible... and we're supposed to portkey. To see him. 'Cause, like, he doesn't have, you know, any way to get in touch with the young guys... like us, I mean... the young guys that have the interest, but don't have... uh... any way to contact the Organization. Except for this. For me. I have a portkey." Vince grinned with beaming pride of possession.

Draco was depressed. He had held on to the hope that Gregory was merely talking through his ass as he tended to do most of the time, but here was the living evidence of all of Greg's fears, grinning out through the floo. Vincent Crabbe was to be the gatherer and the organizer of the next generation of Death Eaters. Which posed a major problem for Voldemort, in Draco's mind. He tested his theory. "Vince? When are you supposed to use that portkey?"

Vincent's beaming grin turned to a confused frown. "Well... I'm supposed to get the guys. I have to do that. And then, when we're all together, I... uh... use the portkey."

Draco sighed. His estimation had been exactly correct. "Vince. What day are you supposed to use it? At what time? It won't be very useful if you all show up and the Big Man is gone on holiday, will it? And what if you show up and he's asleep, or in the middle of dinner, or shagging someone? All you're going to do then is piss him off, right?"

Vince looked terrified. "He said... when he gave me the portkey, you know, he said... what he said was... that... I should get the guys together..." Recollection flooded into Vince's expression. Triumphantly, he announced, "I should get as many guys together as possible. But you, Draco... you are the one he most wants to see. If I could get you, I could leave everyone else behind. Because the Big Man really wants you most of all... and Harry Potter. The two of you together, if possible."

Draco had been feeling a little better. Voldemort must have realized how hopeless Crabbe would be at anything requiring thought, so he gave the boy a portkey and set him out to wait for Draco to happen along. Then Vincent said the name. The name of the hated, home-invading, mother-befriending, Head of House stealing Boy Who Lived. Voldemort wanted him? Voldemort? Potter's lifelong enemy? What had happened to the world? Why was everything so insane? Why could Draco not turn in any direction that did not put Harry Potter's face directly in front of him? A cold anger seeped through him. Smiling pleasantly, he asked once again, using a slightly different tack this time, "Vince? Did the Big Man say anything about... oh... whether he expected school to have started when you were to do this portkey thing?"

"He said... as soon as possible. If I found you, I guess I could... Hey, Draco! Why don't you just come through now, and I'll touch the 'key off and we'll go and..."

Draco wasn't prepared for that. It could only be a disaster. If he were going to meet Voldemort, he wanted to be dressed properly, and he wanted to make sure to have the Weasleys' Ear with him. And if his plan with the ear were to function, there would have to be a lot of extra bodies at the meeting to provide maximum distraction - and even then, he wondered if he would have the courage to place a spy device in the Dark Lord's own headquarters. Then he wondered - would the portkey take them to Voldemort's own lair, or would it transport them to somewhere else? Somewhere unidentifiable and untraceable? He realized that he would have to improvise from the moment he met Crabbe through the time he returned to the relative safety of the Continent. He spoke over Crabbe's babbling. "Look. It's not like I'm on vacation. Ministry problems, you know?"

Vince was astounded. "Draco... have you been committing crimes?"

"These days," Draco responded bitterly, "being a Malfoy is a crime. So I'm hiding out."

"Wow," Crabbe exclaimed, looking behind Draco into the elegance of the Club. "Is that your hideout?"

"No, it's not my hideout," Draco snarled. "I don't dare floo from my hideout. I don't even have a floo at my hideout, I'd be caught for sure. Speaking of which, I have to cut this connection. I don't want anyone to happen by our conversation while monitoring the network."

"But wait!" Vince called, panic in his voice. "When are we going to do the... portkey thing?"

Draco was tempted to say, 'after school starts,' and just forget about Crabbe altogether. But there were too many emotions pulling at him. Voldemort had pissed him off to an extreme degree by leaving Lucius to rot in jail and face possible execution. And then Goyle, and now Crabbe, had angered him further by being stupider than he remembered them being. Draco could hardly believe that he had spent over five years of his life hanging around with those two as friends. And even if he had been their leader... what else could he have been? They were idiots. And as he had feared, Voldemort was willing to settle for the likes of them as the new breed of Death Eater. That made Draco even angrier. A little deeper, there was a different set of feelings, not quite so anger-driven, that were just as powerful. Draco wanted to help Snape. He wanted to prove something to his Head of House, wanted to demonstrate that he could deliver the difficult piece of work when it was most necessary. And he wanted to show that he could do that with style. If the Weasley Ear would help the Snape project make progress... even if it did involve Harry Potter... Draco would place the device for the twins, and make sure Snape learned how it had been done. There was another feeling, as well. Something so vague and mysterious that Draco could not quite identify it yet. But the feeling held an overtone of promise, of hope. Although he had never quite examined this feeling while living with his father, Draco had never held much optimism regarding his future... or anyone's future... following the lead of Lord Voldemort. If Draco could do something that divorced him from that career path, that severed his ties with the Death Eater Organization... if he could do something that would help destroy the leader of that organization once and for all... then he would have the possibility of a future untainted by the Dark Mark and the many ugly trappings of the Dark Lord's service. He would have the opportunity to start over as a free man. He didn't have those words to say to himself, he didn't really quite realize what that deeper, vaguer feeling was. But it was very insistent. And so, instead of putting Crabbe off, he asked him, "Is there a time in the next few days when you'll be getting together with the boys? Just to hang out and the like?"

"I dunno," Vince shrugged with embarrassment. "Like, Greg hasn't wanted to talk all that much lately. Last time I flooed Chas, he called me a git and broke the connection. Boyd's all right, but he never does leave home much. And Jordan... well, you know what it's like to talk to Jordan. You say what you have to, he nods and you're done."

"Do you think you could get Greg and Boyd and Jordan over to your house for a beer or a game of two-on-two quiddich or something this weekend? Let's forget Chas for a while," Draco allowed charitably.

"I don't know, Draco. They haven't been very friendly..."

Draco rolled his eyes and blew out his breath with impatience. "Vince, think! You can offer them a party. You can tell them about the portkey... Hell, man! With the 'key, you could tell them that Voldemort himself ordered them to come to you and travel by 'key. Do you think they would want to go on record as saying 'no' to that? All you have to do is figure out when your chance is. When you have some time without family crowding around poking in their noses. When's that? Saturday? Sunday?"

"No, Draco. My best chance for that would be, like, in the morning on Friday. My dad'll be at work, Ma'll be shopping, probably. Everybody else away, you know? Friday. About ten o'clock."

Draco nodded appreciatively, trying to bolster Vincent's confidence as much as he could. "All right, then. That's the way you do it. You have the portkey, so you're the one in charge. You choose the time, you choose the place to gather - not too public, we don't want everyone staring - and then you floo everyone and tell them when to be and where to be. That's what Vold..." Draco caught himself, looked around the room - which was fortunately completely deserted - then turned back to Vince with a laugh. "That is... I mean, that's what the Big Man wants you to do. Take charge, whip those whelps into line. So. You get together about ten on Friday. I'll do my best to join you. If I'm not there in a reasonable amount of time..." Draco saw the confusion in Vince's eyes, and knew he could not be so vague with his advice. "If I'm not there by half-past ten, you go ahead with everyone you do have. Oh, yeah... did anyone mention how the bunch of you are going to get back after your portkey adventure?"

Crabbe looked down. He obviously hadn't thought that far ahead. "No..."

Draco wondered about that. Would the Dark Lord simply sweep all of his volunteers off to some kind of boot camp? Would they all immediately become soldiers? Was the next war really so close at hand? He decided to take out a slender insurance policy for himself. He would let the Weasleys know that he was going to plant the Ear before he left. That way, if he did not return, someone would know, and would be able to notify Snape, who could tell his mother. With a shock, Draco realized that there was no one else who would ever need to know. "All right, then. It's the Big Man's plan, let him figure it out. I'll do my best to see you at ten on Friday, right? Good. See you then." He broke the connection and casually walked back off of the Club grounds.

-

In the house in Godric's Hollow, Harry was confused. "Charms?" he asked plaintively, his nose wrinkling in distaste.

Snape merely uttered a voiceless, "Pah!" and turned away in disgust.

Remus was more conciliatory. "Of course you must continue to study charms," he said gently. "What is the most often used category of spells in all of wizard life? Transfiguration? I think not. While a true master of the art... I think of Professor McGonagall as a perfect example... while a master can indeed make almost anything out of almost anything else, most of us use things that are what they are as they are when we find them. We make our cloth from fibers, our food from plants and animals, our furniture from wood, our durable goods from metal. And the very fact that there are still viable industries involved in mining, forestry, farming and weaving shows that, despite the tremendous potential inherent in transfiguration, most wizards don't use it nearly as much as it could be used. Potions? I should think that five years at Hogwarts will have given you sufficient exposure to the magic-using world for you to know that most wizards buy the potions they need. Few brew them, and a very precious few brew them well enough to be considered masters of the art."

Harry, still surprised at learning that he would be expected to continue studying the Hogwarts curriculum, even though he would not be returning to the school at the beginning of term, began to make some point by stating, "Professor Snape..." Whatever his argument was to have been, however, it was never given voice. Remus immediately cut Harry off with an enthusiastic agreement.

"Yes, exactly. Professor Snape is one of those precious few who can make potions of all sorts, and who does exactly that for everyone from the school to the government. You have been privileged to study with a master. But we don't have the equipment nor the ingredients here to allow you to continue with that study. You have been doing quite well with him on your History lessons, however, so those will continue. As will your study of protocol, diplomacy, government systems, legal precedents..."

"That's lots more than sixth years study!" Harry wailed.

"And woefully inadequate for someone who will soon be the most powerful individual in the nation," Snape snapped back. "You will be a hero, Mister Potter. Not a sport hero who merely has to win, nor a combat hero who can gracefully fade away once the enemy has been dispatched. You will be a hero with a mighty stature. People will bring their problems to you. You will be asked to decide the fate of people's lives. The more knowledge... and, if at all possible, the more wisdom... you can force into your brain between now and the time you face Voldemort in combat, the better for you - and for the rest of the world, who will come to depend on you. But despite the specialized knowledge which I will attempt to put into your mind, you must continue to study the mundane, the commonplace... the charms... and all the sixth-year standards that go with them. No one gets to be king without finishing his basic education. You don't want the population turning against you because you have failed to master the basics of Hogwarts-level learning. You will continue to study as much of what Mister Lupin and I can show you of a standard sixth-year curriculum." Snape's pronouncement was a command that allowed no room for equivocation.

Harry wasn't about to simply accept it in silence, though. "What about the kind of magic that we practiced at the Weasley warehouse? And at Malfoy's old place?"

"Your wild magic seems to be a natural part of you, Harry," Remus said with gentle encouragement. "I believe we made a mistake in trying to bring the biggest, strongest, most catastrophic spells out of that reservoir you have within you right away, without working up to them gradually. I may be proven wrong about this, and it might turn out that your wild magic really is... wild. That whatever you use that power for has to be triggered by a kind of self-preservation instinct. But I don't really believe that is the case. I have a series of small tests set up that involve really small tasks. The trick is that they are tasks for which you do not know any standard spell. You'll have to improvise. And in so doing, I hope you'll learn to tap into your power directly, without the standard crutches of spells and wands and proper hand motions. If that training is successful, you will be able to use magic more directly than any other wizard has been able to do in centuries - since the time of the first great codification of spells, at any rate."

"And we're going to do this, and keep studying law and government... AND put me through a whole series of sixth year classes?" Harry asked suspiciously.

Remus smiled and spread his hands, indicating the whole house and the beautiful, but unpopulated, surrounding area. "What else do you have to do?"

-

Albus Dumbledore stepped through the floo and into the cramped, dark living room of Alastor Moody. And immediately into a restraining field. "Alastor..." he said reproachfully, but the retired auror paid no attention. His magic eye whirled as it cataloged all of the miniscule things that made Albus who he was. After a long moment, the restraining field came down and Mad-Eye Moody stepped up to Dumbledore, extending a hand.

"Welcome to my home, Headmaster. It's good to see you again," he said solemnly, shaking Albus' hand.

"Well... thank you, Alastor. It's not as though we have been parted for years, though..."

"At our age, and with all that we've been through," Moody grated, his naturally harsh voice grinding even harder as he struggled to emphasize his point, "we never know when our next parting is going to be our last."

Dumbledore smiled indulgently. "That's true of everyone equally, Alastor. Even the young and innocent have no way of knowing when tragedy will strike them."

"Ah!" Moody barked, holding up a finger to point out the Headmaster's error. "But they aren't aware of it, yet. Only we old, scarred veterans know that truth. I'm just glad to see that your many enemies haven't managed to kill you, so far."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "It is always so reassuring to speak with you, Alastor."

"Come, have a seat and talk for a while," Moody said glumly, walking toward his own favorite chair, his artificial leg sounding a hollow thud with every step. "And try to take some reassurance from this. I think I know why you're here, and of course the answer is yes, I'll be glad to help you." He settled onto his armchair, with his prosthesis stretched out in front of him. "But I have been speaking to some old friends who still work in law enforcement. I know, there are few enough of them," he put a hand up to stop Dumbledore's protest. It was well known that most aurors currently serving thought Moody was at least slightly insane. "But there are a few, and those that remain are mature officers, with their ears in the right places. And what they have heard is this: the Ministry knows about your Professor difficulties. Now I presume you would like me to take over Defense Against the Dark Arts. You should know that if I do, I intend to teach a real Defense class, with practical spells and practice at using them. And I think you're resourceful enough to find some gardener somewhere to take over your greenhouses. But what are you going to do with Snape out of the picture?"

Albus sat silently, digesting what he had just heard. If Moody could get this complete a picture third hand, what must the Ministry know?

"They're sending an 'applicant,' is what the Ministry is going to do," Moody growled. "Not as bad as Umbridge, I don't suspect, but with the same set of directions. You have anybody that you can hire before they put their plant in?"

Albus did not, and suspected Moody was quite aware of that. "Let's talk about Defense Against the Dark Arts," he said cheerfully.

-

On Thursday morning, Lucius Malfoy sat in the courtroom, watching the arguments unfold that would decide the fate of his life. He was extremely bored. He still looked proud, aloof, haughty and quite regal. He had a lifetime of training to help him accomplish that. But he took little interest in the proceedings unfolding before him. The real decisions had already been made, and while Lucius knew he was guilty of every charge brought against him - and many more similar crimes as well - he also knew that the outcome of his trial had more to do with the Ministry seizing his holdings than it did with seeking justice for his actions.

The Malfoy family legal team was still functioning - since Lucius had made a special arrangement to make sure they would be paid with funds that the Ministry could not get their hands on. But however hard the firm might have fought for his legal rights, their efforts were doomed from the start. Lucius could hear the inevitable outcome of the trial from the tone of each barrister's presentation, even without paying attention to their words.

Lucius' representatives were arguing with heat. They pointed out how poorly the gathering and handling of evidence had been done. They brought out every failure of the aurors to follow proper procedure, and they thoroughly mocked the paperwork that had been filed by the Ministry's law-enforcement arm throughout the Malfoy case. They hammered away at the conflict of interest aspects of the accusation, pointing out the tremendous value of Lucius' cash and property holdings, which provided such a clear temptation to the Ministry. They reminded the court of how closely Lucius had worked with the Ministry over the years, and how supportive he had been of official policy. They demanded that the court consider whether that was a likely position in which one would expect to find a dangerous rebel. They cited Lucius' clean criminal record.

The prosecution, by contrast, were cold. They argued slowly, patiently, methodically. They piled evidence bit by bit into a mountain of incrimination. They were unemotional, with no histrionics. They were the glacier that would cover his defense team's volcano.

As serious as this proceeding was to Lucius' future... to his very life... he could not help thinking of the team of prosecutors in a cartoonish fashion. They were particularly susceptible to such lampooning, since their appearances matched their cold-blooded presentation so well. The primary prosecutor was like a crocodile, long-bodied, supple and lean with gleaming teeth; while his supporting team were extremely toad-like, with bulging eyes, wide mouths and soft, fat chins. The entire group were dull and slow, but unquestionably predatory... and they were doubtless going to win. Lucius sat silently, watching the court grind through its tedious procedure. If he ever escaped State custody again, he would kill the entire prosecution team. But first, they would suffer Cruciatus for a length of time to match the period during which he was forced to listen to their dull arguments.

-

Every day that week, Draco Malfoy had taken a long walk around the town nearest his home. He had made certain to come home exhibiting a cheerful demeanor, and had brought humorous observations with him, talking about some muggle or other and the situations into which the non-magical people of the world could place themselves. As he had hoped, Narcissa found this to be a very positive sign that he was adjusting to their new life here on the Continent. She encouraged his explorations, and asked very perceptive questions about the stories he told. By Thursday, Draco was fairly certain that his mother was happy with him. So at dinner Thursday evening, smiling as he described his day's excursion, he felt confident enough to suggest, "I'm tired of the muggle town. Tomorrow, I'd like to go and explore a wizard community."

Narcissa looked skeptical. "And where are you going to find one?"

Draco shrugged. "Paris. I know how to get to the theatre... and some of the shops... but tomorrow, I'd like to just wander around, get a feel for the places that are more like the muggle coffee houses. The small, the quaint... you know - cheap."

His humor did what no amount of whining could have done - Narcissa smiled and returned her attention to her food. "If you think you can stand it," she said, then turned a piercing gaze back onto her son. Draco thought he would be forbidden to go out at all, but his mother merely asked, "Do you plan to be back for dinner?"

"I'd rather not," he admitted, grateful that she had given him a chance to look uncomfortable without raising her suspicions. "Friday night, not long before school term resumes... I would guess there would be some people my age looking for an evening's fun. I'd like to see if I could join them."

Narcissa thought about it for a while. It had been good to have Draco home every evening for several reasons. First of all, she didn't have to worry about him if he were right here where she could see him. But also, with her son in the house every night, she had not been tempted to return to the laudanum - or even to drink more than a glass of wine with dinner. If she were home all day - and all night - knowing that he would be gone... Then she gave herself a mental shake, angry at what she was doing. She was not going to make her own son into a sort of babysitter for her. Her temptations, her problems, were not his. She could - and would - take care of herself. "Well, I hope you find something interesting," she told Draco with a sympathetic smile. "It may be pretty hard to find anything fun going on without knowing anyone to give you a clue as to where to look."

Draco smiled in return, both relieved and worried at having the freedom to go through with his plan. "Don't worry," he said in a good imitation of calm confidence. "I have a feeling I'll find some activity out there somewhere."

The next morning, Draco dressed in his muggle-style casual clothes, but folded his finest robe and carefully placed it into a bag. He made sure that he was very visible around the house all morning, looking relaxed and conversing easily with his mother, so it would not look as though he were sneaking away once the time had come for him to leave. A little after nine o'clock, he grabbed his bag, called goodbye, and dashed out the door. His next stop was the Club, where he ducked into a restroom to put his robe on over his muggle wear. He stuffed the bag into the trash and inspected himself in the mirror.

"Not bad, young man," a hollow voice echoed back from the tiles. A wispy, mostly transparent face appeared in the mirror, gazing back at Draco with approval.

The young Malfoy was not about to let himself be charmed by a mirror. With as much authority as he could put into his voice, he demanded, "Do you compliment everyone, or can you offer constructive criticism as well?"

The mirror-face looked offended. "I hardly ever even appear to anyone," he sniffed, "Let alone hand out gratuitous compliments. I made a special effort in your case because your robe is quite an elegant garment. It sets off your hair."

"Yes," Draco drawled sarcastically. "Black is such a great color."

"Not for everyone," the mirror corrected him. "Those who cast too much of their own shadows already hardly need extra ones wrapped around them. On you, it's good. As for constructive criticism... knock the dust from your shoes. Whenever a toe shows from beneath your hem, it spoils the effect."

Draco did a double take on his own footwear, realized that the mirror was right, looked up to thank him, and noticed the face was gone. He buffed his shoes with a disposable towel, checked his inner pocket to make sure the Extensible Ear was still there, and steeled himself for his first real act of espionage. Satisfied that his hands weren't trembling with his nervousness, he walked out of the bathroom and toward the fireplace.

"Some plain and simple jewelry wouldn't hurt..." the wispy voice echoed through the room as Draco left.

A sprinkle of floo powder later, Draco was looking at Vincent Crabbe. Crabbe was grinning broadly, looking quite well chuffed with himself. "Coming to join the party, Malfoy?" he bellowed heartily at the floo.

"You don't need to announce it to the whole town," Draco replied angrily. "I'm trying to be discreet, here."

"Oh, right. Hiding out and all," Vince bellowed again, oblivious to Draco's caution.

"Step back. Out of the way. I'm coming through," Malfoy ordered in disgust, which was compounded when he saw that Crabbe did not obey right away, but actually seemed to be considering his options, as though he might decide to step through into the Club, or reach into the floo as Draco was in transition and try to misdirect him. Draco did not like the look of Crabbe thinking. It was too much a mockery of that most human of activities. But Vince did move, after a significant pause, and Draco disappeared from the Club and stepped into Crabbe's parents' living room. Once there, he glanced behind himself reflexively. The Club could no longer be seen through the Crabbes' hearth. Draco would have to get home some other way. As he turned back, part of the reason for Vincent's uncontrolled vocal volume was exposed. Crabbe pressed a cold can of Guinness into Draco's hand, then leaned back and took a long drink from his own.

Draco stared at the can in disbelief. "Vincent? Vince, lad? You home, Vince?"

"Right here," Crabbe replied with a self-satisfied sigh.

"You're going to see the Big Man... and you're getting drunk?"

Vincent leaned close and spoke very quietly. "Voldemort... be... damned. This is the best party of the whole year! I thought it would have been just Greg and a couple of the guys. But Pansy is here... and Violet... and what's her name? You know... with the tits?"

Draco glared furiously. "You have people here whose names you do not know?"

"No, I know her," Vincent said, flapping his hand through the air as though trying to wave away a bad smell. "She's in Potions... and History... and double Herbol..." as he spoke, Crabbe's attention had wandered away from Draco. His gaze settled on the door that led deeper into the house. "Hey! Why don't we go 'n' see everyone?"

Knowing that any properly sarcastic response would be wasted on his only audience, Draco simply sneered, "Yes. Let's," and followed Crabbe through the house. As they passed through the kitchen, Draco put his Guinness down on a counter. As he had feared, the gathering was being held outside, in the back yard, near enough to neighbors' homes that conversations could easily be overheard. Draco hoped that Vincent, at least, as the keeper of the portkey, would know enough to keep his voice down.

Instead, Vincent pulled the kitchen door open and announced to the entire back yard - and most of the neighborhood, "Look who has graced us with his presence! My man Malfoy has returned from exile! And what an exile! I saw the place he's staying, and it has a separate floo room that's bigger than my entire house!"

Draco pushed his way past his host while telling him, "Shut up, you git. That was a public floo." He gave an ironic bow to the crowd, and as he straightened, he stared. He couldn't believe his eyes. He was almost the only one at the gathering wearing a robe. Gregory Goyle was in rather shabby muggle attire. Chas Thrasher was in a sweatshirt and bicycle shorts, athletic shoes flopping untied about his feet. Violet wore jeans. They were nicely cut, with a trim blouse over them, but... they were jeans! The other girls wore dresses, which might be considered more conservative by muggle standards, but which were hardly the sort of traditional wizarding wardrobe that Draco had simply presumed anyone would automatically wear to meet the most vehemently pure-blood chauvinistic wizard leader in the entire world. Among the entire gathering, only Boyd and Jordan had worn robes, and both of those were plain black school garments. The school robes were properly unadorned and they were certainly not gaudy, but neither were they particularly fine or formal, either. About half of those in attendance held cans of Guinness. Draco had absolutely no idea what to say to any of them.

"Hello, Draco," Pansy Parkenson called cattily as he straightened from his bow. "How have you been?" Violet giggled next to Pansy, in response to some private joke.

Over a year ago, Draco had joked that Pansy's voice had a certain quality to it that always reminded him to check his wallet. She had lost none of that particular attribute over the intervening months. Draco smiled mysteriously and replied, "It's been rough. I've had to keep a low profile." Seeing only incomprehension on the faces surrounding him, Draco tried giving them a clue. "Don't want to end up like my father, you know."

"Why not?" Violet teased. From the look on her face, she was ready to deliver a prime witticism, which began, "I think..."

Her attempt at humor was drowned out by the booming voice of Chas Thrasher. "He's in gaol, you cunt! Boy 'ere don' wanna be like his old Da, 'cause they're gunna kill 'im! Insensitive bitch." He glowered at Violet as he gulped more Guinness.

Draco could see few ways of salvaging this situation, and as he scanned the party once more, a terrible suspicion began to form in his mind. "Vince? You do have the portkey, don't you?"

"Huh?" Vince's attention had been absorbed by staring at one of the girls. It took a moment for Draco's question to register, but when it did, Vincent smirked and hooked his thumb toward the back of the crowd. "It's here, all right. Greg's giving it a look-over. Go and check it out, Malfoy. It's a real piece of work." He turned back to his ogling.

"Right," Draco murmured disgustedly. He worked his way through the laughing, drinking crowd to where Goyle held the device that was supposed to be able to transport them all to Voldemort. The thing would have been unremarkable lying by the side of the road. In Gregory's hands, it was frankly ugly - a length of coarse rope, rough all over and frayed at the ends. The whole thing wasn't very long, meaning that if the entire party was to get a grip on it, they would all be standing very closely together when they did so. Not surprisingly, Draco found that Boyd and Jordan had gathered around Greg to check out the portkey. Draco considered having just the four of them trigger the thing and go into Voldemort's presence in some kind of respectable condition. None of the four were drunk, Draco, Boyd and Jordan wore robes, and Goyle was at least dressed all in black, in worn slacks and a jacket that gave the appearance that he had at least tried to dress formally, showing some respect for their host. But even as he thought that - and saw the same thought mirrored in each of the other boys' faces - he knew that his best chance of planting a spy device would come with the distraction provided by a crowd of loud, obnoxious, improperly-attired drunks. Boyd had seen Draco's face as he approached, however, and he made sure to stand close as Malfoy got a close up look at the portkey, so he was able to explain the situation very quietly.

"This is Vincent's show all the way," Boyd murmured. "From what he says, anyway. He claims his instructions were that he was to be the last one to touch the key, once everyone else had grabbed on securely. The portkey is spelled to recognize him, so it's Vince's signature that sets the thing off. Won't work for anyone else... I don't think."

"So why didn't it zap him back to the Big Man when he tried to carry it home?" Draco sneered.

"There have to be at least three other people attached before it can work," Boyd grinned, a malicious gleam in his eye.

"And there are three of you," Draco pointed out reasonably. Greg, Boyd and Jordan gripped the rope tightly. "And if all the thing needs is three to hold on, and one more to make it go..." Draco's hand shot forward and gripped the rope, waiting for the shock of a portkey activation. Nothing happened. "Right. It was worth a shot." Draco's voice held real disappointment, which was mirrored in the faces of the three boys around him. Malfoy could see the surreptitious glances the others flashed out at the crowd, and the looks of disgust which resulted from what they saw. "Hey, Greg. Why's everyone dressed... umm..."

"Like shite?" Greg answered lightly. "It was Vince's bloody skill with organization at work. He wanted the maximum number of people here, so he called a party. He promised free beer and talked a lot of bollocks about a 'special announcement' that had to do with the Big Man. Problem was, he gave most of these morons the idea that this would be, like, a quick drink of a Friday morning, and that he would hand out a flyer or something. Like this was the place to come to learn when and where the real meeting was going to be held. The three of us figured we'd better be prepared, but the rest of this bunch... they didn't think at all. We're only lucky we didn't draw a bunch of crashers, or that Tim didn't bring his muggle girlfriend, or that nobody dragged along their little brothers or some shite like that. I mean... it's a bloody disaster as it is. But we're lucky for all that it could have been a lot worse."

"Right," Draco agreed, contempt for the whole arrangement clear on his face. "If it's Vince that's necessary to work this thing, let's get him. No sense in wasting any more time here." Draco searched the crowd for Crabbe, and found him standing on the top step of his back porch, trying to get his eyes high enough to look down Violet Brown's blouse. "Hey, Vince! Let's get going, shall we?" Draco bellowed over the crowd noise.

To Draco's horror, the crowd began to rumble impatiently the moment he made his suggestion. Chas Thrasher started a chant of "The Big Man... The Big Man..." which was taken up by several others. Vince tried to direct the unruly bunch by shouting directions, but when he saw no one was listening, he strode to where Greg stood, reached out and took a powerful grip on the rough surface of the rope. Greg leapt back from the thing, nearly dropping it to the ground.

"Let go of it, you idiot!" Goyle spat. "You're supposed to be last."

With a shrug, Vince tossed the portkey to Greg, who held it up for everyone to see. "Grab on!" he shouted, and the crowd surged toward a common center, everyone reaching out for a handhold. Draco made sure his own grip was firm, and looked up to meet the eyes of Jordan Lurker. Jordan's mouth was barely curving at the very corner, but Draco could tell that the quiet boy found the entire scene extremely amusing. Jordan raised his eyebrows and dropped them quickly, a swift signal to let Draco know that he did find the situation very funny.

With everyone pressed tightly together, arms straining to reach the portkey, fingers gripping desperately to the rough surface, Vincent shouted out, "Ready!" and reached out to grab the frayed end of the teleportation device. The entire party disappeared.

-

Neville Longbottom labored proudly in the Hogwarts greenhouses, happy to be left alone for hours at a time to accomplish all that he had in mind. The extended absence of Professor Sepal meant that Neville had to take initiative in order to get anything done, and Neville had risen to the occasion brilliantly, organizing the living specimens on each bench in exactly the way he had imagined they should be, and adding certain improvements that he had long considered necessary, such as a lower workbench next to the regular one, which would give the shorter students a more ergonomically correct work surface.

As he surveyed the lush greenery around him, he compared the state of the plants to his memory of how they had looked when Professor Sepal had been hired. He was pleased to note that - just as he had thought would be the case - the collection looked as though it had been given a good pruning all over. The plants looked younger and fresher, which was actually the case, since Neville had regrown every one. And yet, they were exactly the same in all of the important ways - since he had regrown most of them from cuttings, they were genetically the same, and were in a sense the same actual individuals. But they had been improved. As opposed to most prunings, which cut away the newest growth, Neville had managed to cut away the older portion, leaving the young, vigorous, healthy part. And he had brought it all there to the greenhouses, where it was thriving all around him.

He was so happy with his results that he frequently worked through lunch, and since his grandmother had finally given him permission to move to the castle for the remainder of the summer, he often worked until well past dinnertime. The house elves had come to expect him wandering into the kitchen around nine o'clock each night, asking for some light fare - a sandwich, at most. And they had learned that if they expected him to take any breakfast, they would have to essentially ambush him, appearing before him as he hurried out of the castle near dawn, offering him something compact that he could carry with him and munch as he walked. And they cleverly made those breakfast items small enough that Neville would finish them by the time he arrived in the Herbology Department, because once the boy had entered one of the greenhouses, any food he was carrying would be put aside and forgotten. As a result of the hard work and light diet, Neville was losing weight, and was stronger and healthier than he had ever been.

Albus Dumbledore approached the Herbology Department on Friday morning a little after ten o'clock. He had planned his arrival for a time when Neville would be already busy and comfortably at work. Not at the very beginning of the day when the boy would be still deciding what to work on; but not late enough in the day that Neville would already be tired and dirty, or when he might be trying to finish up the day's work and might be frustrated at not having been able to accomplish all that he had set out to do. The Headmaster thus intended to catch Neville at his most confident and secure, when he would be most open and communicative. Keeping his knowledge of how easily intimidated Neville could be firmly in mind, Dumbledore opened the greenhouse door gently and entered the building smiling.

Neville spun in shock as he heard the booming of the greenhouse door being flung open. With horror, he saw Dumbledore bearing down upon him, teeth bared and a knowing look in his eye. Neville realized that he was gripping his trowel as though it were a fighting knife. Realizing how little defense such a weapon would give him against the awesome power of the Headmaster, he attempted to toss the tool on to the table with a casual flip. The trowel smashed into a pot and shattered it. taking a step backward and feeling the work bench at his back, Neville tried to force his voice to be light and carefree. It came out in a tinny squeak, "Hello, Sir."

Striving to keep his voice light and his manner friendly, Dumbledore asked, "Are you making good progress today, Mister Longbottom?"

Hearing what could only be bitter accusation in the Headmaster's voice, Neville stumbled all over himself trying to point out how much good he was doing. He displayed the healthy new growth of the Thintwicket, and the gleaming pods of the Fireseed. He showed off all of the plants he could point out from where he stood, then ran down, having run out of visible evidence of his own good work, but afraid to move to find more examples.

With a gentle tone of praise, Dumbledore picked up the conversation when Neville fell silent. "And I understand that... ah... after Professor Sepal's... run of bad luck in his first few days on the job, that... hrmm... you... brought all of these plants from your own home for the school to use."

'He knows!' a voice screamed inside Neville's head. 'He knows what you did!' Aloud, Neville humbly said, "It was the least I could do, Sir."

With a broad smile and an expansive gesture that took in the entire Department, Dumbledore countered, "No, Mister Longbottom, it was hardly the least you could do."

'Here it comes,' Neville thought miserably, trembling. 'Here's the punishment for interfering, for misappropriating school property. He'll turn me into a toad.' In his panicked thoughts, Neville had a fleeting vision of Dumbledore turning Trevor into a boy, and having boy-Trevor carry toad-Neville around in his pocket. He wanted to confess, to beg forgiveness, to plea for mercy. But try as he might, he couldn't make a sound.

Dumbledore looked around the greenhouse appreciatively and said, "No, Neville, it was quite a big thing you did... and quite a wonderful job you have been doing since your return here this summer. In fact, it puts me in mind of a recommendation Professor Sprout made just before she left. Do you know what she told me I should do?" He turned back to Neville and winked. Neville could only shake his head in response. With a conspiratorial smile, Dumbledore leaned closer to Neville and quietly told him, "She said that I should have you teach Herbology classes next term."

Neville simply continued to shake his head, gawking wordlessly at the Headmaster.

Dumbledore nodded with a reassuring smile and said, "You have always been modest, Mister Longbottom. And while it is easy to spot the fault in arrogance, there is a point at which modesty becomes an impediment to one's proper progress in life. Let me give you an example." He stepped around the motionless Neville to reach for the broad, green leaves of one of the pots behind the boy. Neville immediately spun around, grabbed the Headmaster's hand and pulled it away from the leaf.

"That's Bristleleaf, Sir. It looks smooth, but there are millions of tiny hairlike thorns covering the entire surface of every leaf. Touching one will leave hundreds of the things in your skin... and even if you didn't get a single one to stick, the toxin that covers each thorn would cause a nasty irritation. It can be very uncomfortable."

"And the plant requires..." Dumbledore prompted gently.

"Indirect sun, moderate temperatures, light watering. It grows slowly, so it takes years to outgrow a pot if the plant is potted correctly in the first place. But it's susceptible to fungus infections. You really have to watch out for those."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "You see, Mister Longbottom? What you know about plants is not only academically accurate, it is very practical as well. If someone had told you this morning that you would save the Headmaster's skin by wrestling him away from a dangerous plant..." He glanced down at his wrist, still in Neville's grip, and the boy released him immediately. "... you probably would not have believed the prediction. But, as you see, it came true. And I believe that something else should come true today, as well. It seems that our new Professor Sepal will be unable to join us for the start of term this year. I will admit that I was worried... until I recalled Professor Sprout's fine recommendation. Mister Longbottom, I would greatly appreciate it if you would agree to teach Herbology during this coming term."

Neville's eyes grew wide, his mouth grew dry, and his stomach began twisting of its own accord. Dumbledore was asking a lot, but it was the perfect opportunity. He wanted to be an Herbologist. He wanted to teach. He could do both this year. A few questions remained, however. "Where...?" he croaked, fighting for words now that he was no longer lecturing about plants.

Dumbledore nodded sadly. "Professor Sepal will most likely be out of touch for the remainder of the term. You will not be able to count on his assistance at all. I'm sorry."

"How...?" Neville wheezed.

"I am sure you recall the lessons from your own experience - most likely better than any other student in the entire school. And I am sure that Professor Sprout would be willing to let you borrow her old lesson plans. You can floo her. I have spoken with her and she is most successful in her new endeavors. But since you were her personal choice of successor... I think she might be willing to lend you a bit of help."

"When...?" Neville squeaked, quite overwhelmed.

"I admit, your own studies would suffer if you tried to force an entire year's worth of studying into the same terms during which you were teaching several classes. I would suggest that you choose one subject for private study for each of the two terms of the coming year. You could have one of our professors help you with your work after classes are out for the day. If this works out, you can continue to work toward your N.E.W.T.s as you work for the school."

Neville faced the Headmaster, hardly believing what he had heard. He wasn't to be punished, but promoted. Dumbledore's criticism had turned to praise, his suspicious inquiries into commendations. Neville was not quite sure how it had happened, but the threat of being prosecuted for theft of school property had turned into an even more intimidating threat of having to teach his fellow students. He imagined the Slytherins mocking him, the Ravenclaws catching his every misstatement, and the outrage the first time he had to discipline a fellow Gryffindor. The whole prospect was terrifying. "I don't know what to say, Sir."

"Then say, 'Yes,' Mister Longbottom."

"How..." Neville began, and his mind went totally blank. For the life of him, he could not remember what he had been about to ask. Dumbledore seemed to have been expecting his question, however.

"How much? A very practical question, and very typical of a professor, since those of us who toil in academe are hardly compensated in a fashion appropriate to our real worth. Shall we say, double what Hogwarts is paying you for your summer work, subject to review for a possible raise at term's end?"

Neville nodded, managed to stammer, "Th... Thank you, Sir," and shake Dumbledore's hand.

The Headmaster congratulated the new Professor Longbottom, wished him luck and reminded him that he had only two weeks to prepare his class plans for the fall term. Then he let himself out of the greenhouse and went to deal with a far more troubling problem.

The Ministry had sent Hogwarts a potions professor to take the place of the missing Professor Snape. The Headmaster was not familiar with Pennyroyal Routhe, and that was what troubled him. He knew all of the most skilled potions makers in the country - and most of the best in the entire world. That he was a stranger to Madame Routhe was a bad sign. He sighed and began the long walk up to the castle.

Neville stood for a long time in shock. Then, he began to work again, very slowly, as though moving underwater. He cleaned up the shards of the pot he had broken with his trowel, then turned back to the work that Dumbledore had interrupted. A few minutes later, no one was close enough to the greenhouse to hear his shout of celebration.


	14. Chapter 14

_Answering some reviewers' questions:_

I haven't taken part in any online Harry Potter discussions. (I actually didn't know there were such things until your reviews let me know about them!) So I like to think that I have come up with the elements of my story all by myself.

But we all know how writers like to fool themselves, don't we?

I have read an awful lot of "theories of magic," from the traditional Western theory (magic is the tool of the Devil), to the wonderfully succinct definition offered by The Drummer in Warren Ellis's comic book, Planetary (from WildStorm): "Magic is the cheat codes for the universe." So the "membrane that runs through everything" theory has probably been fully explored somewhere, by someone. It seemed to make a lot of sense in this context, though.

The "crossed wands" scene was a direct response to a suggestion from the person who encouraged me to write this story in the first place: "Do something with wands to show how Harry is unfamilar with wizarding customs." I know far too well, from experience, that embarrassment is memorable - so I made an embarrassing scene that Harry would be sure to remember.

As for hair - for some reason, Rowling tends to describe every character's hair in some detail, and identify them thereafter by that attribute. There must be some reason for that, don't you think? I guessed that there must be a tradition of specific hairstyles corresponding to various standings in wizard society. "Shock," for an orphan in mourning, for example.

Enough rambling: Chapter 14 awaits!

Chapter 14

Draco looked around himself as soon as the portkey's disturbing action brought him to a new location. Most of his fellow travellers were quite distressed at the extreme disorientation that portkey travel imparted to anyone who used it, and some were actually lying on the ground, helplessly dizzy or painfully sick. Draco had little time to waste on sympathy for his distressed comrades, though. He scanned the room quickly and thoroughly, looking for furniture, air ducts, floor drains, light fixtures... anything that might help conceal his spy device.

He was appalled.

The room was stone. The floor was stone, the ceiling was stone, all four walls were stone. And the single piece of furniture in the room was a throne on a raised dais. And it, too, was made of stone. There was a door. It was made of stone as well, identifiable as a door only because it was not completely closed. There were four torches. They sat in sconces, one on each of the room's four walls.

That was it.

No vents, no drains, no lamps, no tables, no chairs. He had expected some sort of easel, or perhaps a kind of chalkboard, for planning strategic maneuvers. He had hoped there would be some sort of map table, on which blocks representing the forces of the Dark Lord and the forces of the Ministry could be deployed, to give everyone a clear idea of the military nature of the conflict between the establishment and the opposition. Maybe there was some other room in which these things were stored. Maybe Voldemort used a magical display when he described his tactical situation to his lieutenants. Maybe he didn't consider this time of ongoing tension between the sides to be a true war quite yet. Whatever the reason, there was nothing in the room except the throne, the torches, a barely open door and the bare walls. This gave Draco only two options for placing his Extensible Ear.

'Five options!' Draco could imagine exactly how his father's voice would sound, correcting him. 'Torches and Throne are categories of possibilities. There are four torches in the category, Torch. Evaluate each one separately to find the advantages of each one.'

And he would be right, of course. From everything Draco had ever heard about Voldemort, the Dark Lord would be so paranoid about his own seat that the throne could not be considered a viable choice for an Ear. And since Draco had no idea how keen the Dark Lord's sight was - or how much it was boosted by magical abilities - he couldn't really choose the torch that was almost directly in front of the dais. That would give Voldemort an almost direct line of sight to the Ear's hiding place every time he sat in the throne. Not good. But the room was set up in such a way that the torch directly behind the throne was actually much closer to the dais than any of the others. The area behind the throne was small, and - once again, considering the Dark Lord's penchant for paranoia, which probably insured that he allowed few people behind his back - it was probably the least-used area of the entire room. That made the rear torch the perfect choice to hold the Extensible Ear. Draco casually walked away from the group, and pretending to be doing nothing more than putting distance between himself and those people suffering from portkey sickness, he began to move toward the back wall, and the sconce near its center.

He was nearly there when the massive door opened further and a small man with a gleaming artificial hand stormed into the room, stomped his way to the dais, and - carefully avoiding all contact with the throne - faced the crowd and raised his shining hand for attention. The small man waited for the low hum of conversation to subside. When the mere fact of his presence failed to silence the group, he cleared his throat primly and spoke a single word, "Quiet." He seemed a bit shocked when he received both the quiet he had asked for and the attention of the gathered visitors. He searched out Vincent and when he was sure he had identified the boy, he demanded, "What is this?"

Vincent stood proudly, a broad smile on his face. "This is the youth brigade, Mister Pettigrew..."

The little man's face whitened. "Shut Up!" he rasped, stepping forward with both his magical and his normal-looking hands raised in warning. "Have these people been cleared? Have any of these people been invited to join our movement by our leader? No! So, do we use names in front of them?"

"But these are my friends," Crabbe said, baffled. "They are the new recruits..."

"You don't make that decision!" The man huffed. His nose wrinkled and his upper lip lifted off his front teeth in a strangely rodential grimace. "Any one of these people could be a spy. Any one could be an assassin. You don't know! Have they disguised themselves? Have they taken polyjuice? Have they cast glamours on themselves? Are they wearing simple theatrical makeup? You! Don't! Know!" The little man suddenly drew himself up to his full height, lowered his voice and added, "And if you tell me you do know, I'll tell you that you are nowhere near a talented enough wizard to detect the kinds of magic that our leader's enemies will stoop to using against him. They are cowards, they are dishonest, and they can be murderously vicious. Don't tell me you are absolutely sure that none of these people is an imposter. So first - No Names!" He peered around the room, taking in the crowd. It was obvious that something bothered him, but he seemed to be confused about what it was. With a visible start, what he was seeing suddenly registered, and he stared hard at several different individuals. Sounding truly baffled, he asked Crabbe, "Why are you all dressed so inappropriately? Have you no respect?"

One thing that can be said for alcohol is that it gives its users temporary confidence - frequently of the most inappropriate kind. Chas Thrasher had enjoyed several drinks before coming to Crabbe's backyard beer party, and was sufficiently inebriated to stand up to an unknown, upset, adult wizard wearing a magical prosthesis, standing on Voldemort's throne-room dais, haranguing the group. To Chas, speaking up in his own defense wasn't even a difficult choice - not even something he had to think about. For one thing, he wasn't fighting with the puny wizard with the fake hand, he was merely setting the little guy straight. The tiny whiner had somehow gotten the wrong idea, and Chas was about to educate him. Once the little puke realized how wrong he was, he would doubtless thank Chas for taking the trouble to put him right. So Chas stood up and bellowed over the sound of Pettigrew's whinging. "What we have is power, youth, strong bodies, good heath and NO FEAR!" He pumped his fist into the air, drawing a roar of approval from the crowd. "We hate the way things are, and want to change things to the way we want them to be. We're your best hope, your dream come true and your last chance. We are what you want. Now you get to tell us: Are you what WE want?"

To Draco's horror, there was a loud rumble of agreement from the majority of the young people gathered there. Draco could not take the chance of approaching the torch sconce for fear that Pettigrew would notice. So he stood there, trying to keep himself separate from the bulk of the group, so that when the curses started flying, he would be, for the most part, out of their path.

A harsh whisper cut through the room, quiet, but with an intensity that guaranteed its being heard by everyone present. "A good question. Am I what you want?"

Draco looked toward the room's only entrance to see someone... or something... casually sauntering in. The man who had been standing and shouting at them all was on his knees, head bowed in the direction of the newcomer. And despite the fact that such an entrance could only be made by one person, that there was only a single possibility as to the identity of the new arrival, Draco could not believe it. He had imagined the Dark Lord in so many ways - as a giant, wreathed in flames; as a muscular hero with a crowd-pleasing face; as an ancient, radiating wisdom - and this individual was none of those things. He was small, his face horribly slick, as though all of his skin had been burned off. He walked confidently, but as though he were weak, or even crippled. His only display of strength had been his piercing whisper. And then he flicked his wand absently and the heavy stone door behind him crashed shut. He progressed slowly toward the dais, looking over the gathered crowd. As he took the step up to the elevated platform, he nearly stepped on the kneeling Pettigrew. He never seemed to notice. Draco had noticed many things, though. As hard as it was to picture this weird, crippled, scarred little man as the great Dark Lord, his servant clearly took him very seriously. Draco sank quietly to his knees and inclined his face toward the ground, while still allowing himself the freedom to watch the scene unfolding before him. With some relief, he saw that Boyd and Jordan... and yes, even Gregory had followed suit, kneeling with their empty hands in clear view, showing that they posed no threat.

Voldemort stepped to the front of the dais, directly in front of his throne, and surveyed the standing, gawking crowd once more. He raised his arm, extending his hand, palm down, out at an upward angle, as though making an old-style fascist salute. Some of the boys in the crowd seemed to wake up at this display. It looked as though some of them were preparing to return the salute. But then, the Dark Lord began to lower his arm, his other hand gripping his wand tightly. As Voldemort's hand lowered, those in the crowd still standing began to look alarmed, then frightened. And then they all fell to their knees as one, some pushing upward against the invisible force driving them down, some falling completely onto their sides or bellies. Voldemort kept the pressure up just long enough to make his point - then dropped his hand, releasing the crowd from the force. There was a general sigh of relief, but no one spoke aloud. Voldemort waited to make sure no one would. Then he smiled, a strange, lipless, sharp-toothed grin. And he spoke with the same kind of piercing intensity with which he had whispered. "Welcome," he said in a relatively soothing, kindly tone. It may have been genuinely soothing and kindly sounding if the Dark Lord's voice hadn't sounded like his face looked: as though it had been scarred, burned, stripped raw and left to regrow without medical assistance. "Do any of you not know who I am?" No one raised a hand. Everyone gawked open-mouthed - except for Greg, Boyd, Jordan, and Draco, who kept their faces humbly lowered. "I presume you have come here to learn how to join the Opposition," Voldemort continued, sounding very much like a Professor on the first day of class.

"Death Eaters," Chas called out, trying to make clear exactly which part of the 'Opposition' he intended to become involved with.

Voldemort's wand flicked almost imperceptibly, and Chas fell over backward, his head snapping back with alarming force. "You have not earned the right to speak that name. You have not shown me..." he paused to allow the significance of that pronoun to sink in. "... any reason to think that you might be considered for admission to such a privileged rank. You have not even demonstrated any qualities sufficiently desirable that I would be tempted to admit you to the Opposition at all - as a Death Eater, or as anything else."

To the relief of the people surrounding him, Chas began to stir once again. He struggled to right himself and found that he could only struggle back to a kneeling position by keeping his head beneath a very low ceiling. Apparently, the spell with which Voldemort had forced them all to kneel was still in effect, keeping Chas, at least, from rising at will.

"This organization is based on discipline," Voldemort lectured. "Its tenets are simple, and easy to follow. Among the most important of those tenants is this: wizards are better than muggles. Wizard society is better than muggle society. And wizards' artifacts are better than muggle artifacts. The truth of this is self-evident. And yet, I see you here before me, wearing garments that are not in the least part wizards' garments. How did this occur?"

A dozen voices immediately began to explain variations on the 'Vince called a beer party' story. Voldemort listened for a few seconds, then shouted "Silence!" Everyone immediately quieted. "Do you not 'party' in garments befitting the wizards and witches that you are? You, girl," he pointed directly at Violet Brown. "How did you decide to don that apparel when you dressed today?"

"I dressed to please you, My Lord," she replied demurely, lowering her gaze, then looking back up from beneath her lashes.

"And since you know I would be most pleased by a young witch wearing a young witch's robe, I suppose by 'please me' you mean something else. Did you mean to seduce me, young lady?"

"Whatever My Lord wishes," she murmured, leaning forward and spreading her hands as she knelt.

"Do you know to what lengths my carnal desires run?" Voldemort spat back sarcastically.

"I would love to find out," Violet replied in the deepest, richest tone she could.

"Do you know that my last several partners have not survived their first night with me?" Violet turned completely white and shuddered in place. "Do you still wish to seduce me, girl?"

Trembling, Violet managed to say, "Whatever My Lord wishes."

Voldemort sighed. "That is safe enough, I suppose. I do not wish to slaughter my entire army, nor all of those people who support my army. So I do NOT wish for you to try to seduce me. I wish that you... and all of you... would wear clothing appropriate to your proud heritage as magic users. Wear robes. When you study, when you party, when you fight - wear robes! If you wish to accessorize... wear your school ties." Voldemort smiled, and the effect was more frightening than if he had continued scowling.

"Another thing!" he snapped suddenly. "I am not 'Your Lord.' If you believe me to be, then I commend you on your good taste. But none of you have earned the privilege to address me as such. You may call me 'Sir' until I tell you otherwise." He paced across his dais, back and forth, a few steps at a time, surveying the silent crowd before him. Finally, he stopped and pointed out one individual. "There is one example to be set here. Vincent Crabbe... Stand!"

Vincent shot up faster than it would have been possible to rise without magical assistance.

Voldemort regarded the boy for a long while before saying anything. When he spoke, his voice was tinged with regret. "I sent you out among people of your own age to bring me back recruits. You have shown up with a goodly number of candidates. So I do not, thankfully, have to kill you. However, you knew... even if you did not inform your associates... that you were coming to see me. Coming to see me for a serious, possibly even crucial meeting which might well decide your own future in my organization. And what is it that you have covering your body, boy?"

"These are cargo pants, Mmm... Sir," Vincent was clearly terrified.

"Cargo pants..." Voldemort mused. "A muggle artifact, made for carrying other muggle artifacts, by muggles and for muggles. You wore them here. Have you no respect at all for my organization, my beliefs, or all the work I have done to insure that wizards might one day take their proper place at the head of all of the world's workings?"

"Yes, Sir!" Vincent nearly screamed.

"Yes, you have no respect?"

"No, Sir!" Vincent begged, the tears about to spill from his eyes.

"No, you have no respect?" Voldemort snarled. Vincent was speechless. That was the moment the Dark Lord had been waiting for. "Crucio!"

Draco had seen Cruciatus cast before. His father had cast it, in the Malfoy home, on a wizard with whom he had suffered a dispute. Lucius would most likely have beaten Draco if he had realized that his son had been spying, but the youngster had been clever and had escaped without being detected.

That experience had been very different from this one. In that case, Draco had seen his own father dispensing justice with the unforgivable curse, imposing his own righteous will on a family enemy. Draco had been safely hidden, and had escaped without becoming involved. He had gone back to his room, excited by feelings he could not explain. He had been proud of his father, and contemptuous of the other man. He had hoped that he would learn to wield such power some day. But there had been more to it than that. There had been a thrill in seeing the curse cast, and in watching the other man helplessly writhing, that had given him fuel for fantasies night after night for quite some time. In this claustrophobic stone room, fully exposed, with one of his own friends under the curse, and a truly frightening creature casting it, Draco had a very different set of feelings. He watched Vincent crumple to the ground and writhe, his eyes rolled completely back, showing nothing but white, and Draco was afraid. He had felt many things toward Crabbe in the past few hours, from contempt and disgust to anger and impatience. But seeing him like this, he felt compassion for the boy. Crabbe was stupid. He brought this on himself. And yet, for those very reasons, seeing this display of Cruciatus was like watching someone torture an animal. Crabbe would learn something from this experience. He would learn, mostly, that Voldemort could hurt him very, very badly. But he wouldn't learn anything that was very useful, that would make him a better follower of the Dark Lord, or a better student of magic, or a better person at all. It was all sadly pointless. Draco felt more disgust than ever for the leader of the 'Opposition.'

Which made his next few moments very trying. Voldemort released Vincent from the Cruciatus, and once more scanned the crowd. People shivered in fear as the Dark Lord's gaze passed near to them, and sighed in relief as it moved on. Inspecting the entire group, Voldemort finally looked near the back of the room. He smiled. His gaze locked onto Draco. "Draco Malfoy!" the Dark Lord cried out. "Come here!"

Smoothly, betraying no emotion, Draco rose and walked toward Voldemort. He really had no idea what to do as he drew closer. If he obeyed the instruction exactly, he would have to step onto the dais, putting him on Voldemort's own level. He hesitated before taking that step and saw Voldemort's hands make a tiny, encouraging motion. Draco stepped up and walked to within about a meter of the Dark Lord. Then, just as smoothly as he had risen, he sank to his knees once again. The maneuver put him right next to the throne. Draco knew that such symbolism would not have been allowed to occur by accident. This was a message to him, and to anyone else clever enough to read it.

"Tell these people what has been happening to your father!" Voldemort commanded, and took a step backward to allow everyone in the room a clear view of the young Malfoy kneeling next to the throne.

"My father was arrested and put on trial for supporting the doctrine of wizard superiority," Draco announced. "He faces death at the hands of the Ministry for killing those who fought against us, who denied the natural superiority of wizards, and who strove to keep us from taking control of our world. He has had his property - my home - seized by the Ministry in their greed to take what is ours and apply it to their own muggle-loving programs and policies."

"And you, boy? Where have you been?"

"In hiding, Sir, to avoid Ministry persecution."

"And where have you hidden?"

Draco's mind raced. He concentrated on showing no reaction. "Thank you for trusting me not to answer, Sir," he said humbly. "But as we both know, neither of us can be sure which of these people is a Ministry spy."

Voldemort grinned, staring at the young Malfoy. Then a single, harsh "Ha!" escaped his lips. Draco feared for his life. But then another "Ha!" and another, and then a string of them followed. Then, the Dark Lord was laughing, sounding genuinely amused. Draco relaxed, striving to keep from showing how relieved he was.

"Very good, boy. It is thinking like that which keeps our people alive! Now, do any of you have any questions of me?"

Someone on the far side of the room asked about the Dark Mark. Voldemort glared at the boy and began scolding him for wanting a badge of office before he had earned the right to join the organization. Draco checked everywhere he could see. The audience's eyes were focused on Voldemort. The Dark Lord was focused on the boy he was scolding. Pettigrew was still kneeling, facing away from Draco. It was now or never. Draco reached into his robe pocket, and through an opening there into his muggle pants pocket. He drew forth the Weasleys' device. Under cover of spreading his arms to keep his balance while in the unfamiliar kneeling position, he put one hand beneath the stone throne and pressed the Ear up against the bottom of the seat.

The Ear deployed much like a piece of chewing gum - it was soft and sticky, and would adhere to almost any surface if it were simply pressed there. Unlike the old Extensible Ears, which actually extended through space to allow a person's natural ear a more convenient place from which to eavesdrop, this model transmitted any vibration magically to a receiver in the Weasleys' warehouse office. The throne was low, wide and heavy. The wad of gum stuck to the bottom of it would hardly be noticeable, especially as Draco pressed it hard enough to squash the malleable surface as flat as possible. He withdrew his hand from beneath the throne, made a few more balance-maintaining gestures and returned to kneeling motionlessly on the dais. He was not called upon to speak, and since most people's questions were either very stupid, or involved things that Draco had been taught years since by his father, the time seemed to stretch interminably. But finally, the Dark Lord was willing to let them all go. He cast a spell on another ugly old piece of rope, which he told them would make this portkey work in reverse - sending them back to where they had started from, in this case, Vincent's back yard. He gave them some standard warnings against discussing any of this with outsiders, and reminded them that the penalty for betraying the Opposition was death. No one present doubted him. Then he flicked his wand at the huge stone door, which opened silently for him, and he left the room. Pettigrew was on his feet immediately.

"Move, you sluggards!" He commanded. "You need to be out of this room and back to your regular places in your lives - now!"

Everyone took hold of the rope except Crabbe, who waited until he was sure no one was left out. Then he grabbed the end of the rope and the group vanished from the throne room.

-

Albus Dumbledore walked slowly through the castle's front entrance and took his time about making his way to the stairway to his office. He had been expecting someone to arrive at the castle to meet with him, and had presumed that she would be waiting by the front door, or sitting on one of the benches within sight of the entrance. Since that was not the case, he guessed that the woman was late, which could be a bad sign for several reasons. It might indicate that she was not in the habit of being punctual, which would be bad for class scheduling if she were to become employed by the school. Or, it could indicate that - as the Ministry's chosen replacement for the missing Professor Snape - she felt that she was too important to be held to appointments, and too powerful to be disciplined for missing them. Dumbledore sighed. Last year had been a trial, and if Pennyroyal Routhe was anything like Dolores Umbridge, this year was starting out in the same way.

So it was that the Headmaster was quite surprised to turn into the corridor which led to his office stairway and see his applicant waiting at the foot of the stairs for him. She was not late, but rather, must have been quite early in order to have gotten across the grounds and into the castle before he left the greenhouses. This small fact brought a large amount of relief to the Headmaster. Perhaps this year would not be plagued by as much Ministry interference as he had feared, after all.

To avoid startling the woman, Albus cleared his throat, and began welcoming her to Hogwarts as soon as he entered the corridor in which she stood. She turned toward him with a bright smile, clutching an accordion folder filled with papers to her chest, while a leather case, apparently also full, stood by her feet. She shifted the accordion folder to free her right hand, and reached out to shake Dumbledore's. The Headmaster murmured the password, and the column behind the gargoyle began to turn, gradually revealing the staircase.

Pennyroyal Routhe watched the display with delight. As the bottom step was finally placed into position right in front of her feet, she turned her sparkling gaze back to Dumbledore. "That is wonderful!" she gushed. "This whole castle is wonderful! The way it just appears before you as you approach, the beautiful lawn, the sounds of the animals down the hill, the lovely forest all around... and now this! Wonderful."

Dumbledore smiled politely at the praise. "You... ahhhh... didn't... study at Hogwarts... did you?"

"Oh, no Dear," Madame Routhe confided, reaching out her hand to rest it on the Headmaster's forearm. "I was at so many schools, none of them could claim me. My family always said they were Gypsies." She laughed out loud until she realized that Dumbledore was not joining in, but merely looking confused. "They weren't, of course. That is, they weren't descended from Romany. There were no actual Kings in Disguise in my family tree - we just travelled as though there were!" She laughed once again, and this time Dumbledore joined with a weak chuckle, quickly returning to his indulgent smile. "Well, you know where I haven't been," Madame Routhe continued merrily. "You'll want to know where I have... let's see. I was in America for a long time. Salem, of course. And Southern California. We called it 'Hollyweird' so routinely, I imagined that most of the world knew the school by that, rather than its formal name. But America... everything's so new, so utilitarian. It's like they didn't want to have any fun building a wizard school. Salem had a 'Colonial' theme... with me being English, guess who got picked on as a 'Tory' all the time... but California. Oh! Flat walls, square corners, off-white everything. As boring as it could be! I was in France for a while. Beauxbatons for my fifth year. And that was pretty, but... all kind of nose-in-the-air, you know. All sort of 'This way, Girls, we're better than all of those English people.' All the time knowing that I was English and that I had learned their language to study at their school, while they were nearly helpless in mine... Well! I can tell you I didn't appreciate their attitude in the least. But this... this is wonderful!"

Madame Routhe paused for a breath, and Dumbledore took the opportunity to invite her up to his office. She thanked him, fumbled with her file folder and her case, got them all under control after a bit of juggling, and set off up the stairs at a measured, determined pace. When they reached the office, the candy dish floated over toward the guest, and the Headmaster offered, "Sherbet lemon?" Madame Routhe inspected the dish from several angles, put down her case and took two.

"Wonderful. This is how a magical office should be, Professor. Floating candy. There are a number of schools that could use a bit of your attitude."

"I can assure you... our classes are... definitely not... dishes of floating candies, Madame Routhe. I expect our students to attain the highest levels of academic achievement. And the man whose... recently vacated... place you are applying to take... was one of the best practitioners of the art of potion making... in the world." Dumbledore fixed her with a piercing stare. "His classes are already... quite advanced. You are familiar with Professor Snape?"

Madame Routhe returned a beaming smile. In a tone almost joyful, she explained, "Of course I know Professor Snape's work, Professor. Not the man, but his work. And his work is truly exquisite. You were fortunate to have had him. And, if I understand correctly, he may not have truly expired in that... what was it?... tropical exploration disaster. You may be fortunate to have him once again. But for now, you need to find someone to teach your students. And if Professor Snape is unable to do so, you need to take someone who is available. And I'm sure you would prefer someone who is enthusiastic. And I would love the chance to teach your students Potions, Professor. I truly would."

"Well, then," Dumbledore replied, in a businesslike tone, "perhaps you could tell me what experience your time at the Ministry has allowed you... in the field of Potions, that is."

"Oh, there is just so much!" Madame Ruth enthused, gazing into the air as though to check a list. "I routinely make headache remedies, and tummy soothers... the Ministry generates a lot of call for those, and I don't mean with the Cafeteria food. Our workers are frequently under a great deal of stress. So there are calming potions, to allow our staff to wind down after a hard day - and sleeping potions for those nights when the work follows people home and won't leave them alone to get their rest. And alertness potions to keep workers on their toes... especially when the number of hours worked in a day becomes burdensome. And... I'm sure I can tell you this, you'll understand... there is always a call for a potion to remedy the ill effects of too much drinking. The night before, that is! Never on duty, but... well, there's nothing more deleterious to one's work performance than a hangover, is there, Professor?"

Dumbledore's indulgent smile had faded long before Madame Routhe's recitation had finished. "These... particular brews... all fall into the category that we in academe refer to as... ahhh... 'medicine chest' potions. I am sure they are helpful and necessary. But... surely you have experience in more... hmmm... challenging recipes?"

"Professor," Madame Routhe said reproachfully. "If you have ever seen an entire Department infected with influenza, I am sure you will agree that there could be no more valuable potion than one that relieves symptoms while inhibiting contagion."

Dumbledore was beginning to look a bit worried. "Yes, I understand. But... I also know that the Ministry has some very... stringent requirements... for some of the potions they use. For example: have you ever brewed polyjuice?"

Madame Routhe looked scandalized. "That's illegal!"

"It is," the Headmaster replied carefully, "unless it is for the use of an auror performing a Ministry-sanctioned undercover investigation. I know that the Ministry has used polyjuice in a number of very... demanding... situations. Have you brewed the potion?"

"Hardly," Madame Routhe replied stiffly. "If... or, that is... whenever a potion of that sort is required, it is made in absolute secrecy. I would guess that the auror who is to use it would most likely brew it himself, so as to be the only person who knows of its existence."

Dumbledore looked very stern as he persisted in his questioning. "How about veritaserum?"

"Professor!" Madame Routhe gasped. "Are you trying to shock me? Veritaserum is an extremely tightly controlled substance. Every vial of it must be kept in double-locked cabinets, strictly numbered and used only with a special Ministerial order."

"Nonetheless, Madame Routhe, despite the strict controls placed on its use, veritaserum is frequently used by aurors specially trained in the interrogation techniques that include it. And, less frequently, in obtaining certain testimony in a court of law. It is the Ministry, after all, which issues the orders for its use, and so... as a Ministry potions expert... have you brewed veritaserum?"

Madame Routhe looked a bit put out by this line of questioning. "You seem to know a lot about Ministry potions, Professor, and since you do, I would guess that you are perfectly aware that your own Professor Snape has, over the past five years or more, essentially cornered the market for veritaserum brewing on behalf of the Ministry. Professor Snape has put even such illustrious individuals as Mister Dinwiddie and Doktor Gephardt essentially out of business so far as British Ministry purchases of veritaserum is concerned. He has created such an intense niche market within our government, in fact, that no Ministry potions makers have made so much as a single vial of veritaserum for our own government's use for... as I said... at least the past five years."

Dumbledore let the subject of Professor Snape drop immediately. "Perhaps you are experienced with some of the rarer brews, then. Have you made a lineage potion?"

"Ha!" Madame Routhe's laugh was a startled bark. "That's rare, all right. I doubt that the lineage potion has been used as admissible evidence for... well, for anything... in over two hundred years. As I'm sure you know, since you're quizzing me about it, the person who is going to use the lineage potion has to be involved in the brewing process. There is the donation of certain... bodily fluids... and the more input the subject has into the making of the potion, the more revealing it will be. But few of us test for blue-bloodedness very often, any more. And no, I have not brewed the potion for myself, so... no. I haven't ever made one."

"I need to know that my students are being instructed by someone with the proper knowledge and experience," Dumbledore said gravely. "And as I have said, our potions program is rather advanced, even in the early years. For example, before they complete their O.W.L.s, our students will have learned to brew a potion that regresses aging. It is usually tested on amphibians. If the... frog, for example... can be regressed to its tadpole state, then the potion is considered a success. That is powerful magic to be put into a vial, Madame Routhe."

The Ministry potion maker relaxed and smiled once again. "I know how to make that one, Professor. I have passed my O.W.L.s - and my N.E.W.T.s - and I have been to university." She patted the heavy files she had brought with her. "I have all of the documentation concerning my education and the results of my tests right here, and the potion you are asking after was included in my own pre-O.W.L. studies, as well. But seriously, what is the real use of such a brew? The Ministry knows perfectly well that the "Youth" potion is most often requested in a very dilute form by vain witches who want their skin to remain smooth. You can do a lot more harm than good by using it that way, and so the Ministry has made it easy for all of us to deny such requests by forbidding us from making it. And really, if we are talking practical utility, your students will get a lot more use out of a good, simple headache remedy than they will out of a frog-to-tadpole concoction, or any of the dizzyingly complex recipes for potions whose only use is as tasteless jokes. The Ton-Tongue potion is very difficult to make - and even trickier to hide in candy, where it is usually concealed by the pranksters who fancy it. But what good is it? It's not even funny after you've seen it once. And potions that turn one's hair blue, or cause the poor victim to sprout horns or grow fangs, no matter how temporarily... all of that is just meanness. Even the more traditional of the 'difficult' potions - things like invisibility or levitation... Professor, if a Ministry official really needed to fly, he could use a broomstick. And invisibility is simply unethical. Who needs to be invisible? Criminals and spies are the only ones I can think of off the top of my head. But when your baby is sick, you're going to need a stomach ache remedy. When your co-worker has a cold, you're going to need something to help you keep from getting it. When your friend breaks his arm blocking a bludger in a quiddich match, a good, strong pain-killer is worth all the blue-hair potions in the world. So if you insist, I can teach the children how to brew difficult, dangerous, nearly useless potions. But I would like to give them something to take with them through life, to make those lives better."

Dumbledore was clearly disappointed. "I appreciate the sentiment, Madame Routhe," he said with an air of finality. "And I thank you for your interest. I would... as you may expect... like to make sure that I have the chance to interview every applicant. Thank you for coming."

"Call me Penny," Madame Routhe beamed. "It's short for Pennyroyal. I think you'll have plenty of opportunity to use it." Dumbledore raised his eyebrows at that, but offered no comment. Pennyroyal tilted her head to the side and smiled even more broadly. "Professor, there are only two weeks until your term begins. Unless you hire someone else today, no one who is currently employed will be able to give their employer two weeks' notice and still be able to start work here on your first day of classes. And there is some preparation required before class begins, so whoever you hire will need to be here in less than two weeks. Much less, in order to get everything ready for the students to arrive. From the questions you're asking, I can tell you wouldn't consider hiring someone who is not currently employed..." She looked expectantly at him, waiting for some confirmation. Dumbledore looked back calmly, giving nothing away. Madame Routhe sighed. "I hate for it to come to this, but I suppose it must. Professor, if you don't have a Potions professor in place by the week before classes begin, the Ministry will appoint me to the position, by the authority they hold." She looked away for a moment and laughed self-depreciatingly. "I don't make these kinds of decisions. This is just what my supervisor told me. I like my job at the Ministry. I fully intend to go back to it once my teaching here is over. But... you don't have anyone, do you? Do you?" She looked imploringly at the Headmaster, who shifted uncomfortably, but made no reply. "I would really much rather have you hire me than have the Ministry put me here. I want to get along with all of the staff... and with you. And with all of the students, of course. I look forward to seeing them, especially the youngest ones. They're so cute at that age! But... But if I get appointed to the position by the Ministry... it will appear as though I were put here by force. I don't imagine that it will be very easy for the other professors to like me. You do understand... don't you?"

Dumbledore stood silently for quite some time. He hummed a bit. Cleared his throat several times, and finally said, "Madame Routhe... Penny... you put me in a difficult position. I do not... appreciate... being dictated to. However... if the Ministry has the confidence in you... sufficient to make you the appointee on behalf of the Ministry's... obligation... to insure proper staffing of this school... then, I say that perhaps I should give you an opportunity to... prove yourself. I won't suggest that it will be easy. But, if you are willing... Welcome aboard, Professor Routhe. That is... Penny. Come. Let me show you your classrooms."

"Oh, good," Pennyroyal gushed. "I hope they have good north light. A bright, sunny, open area always puts children in the mood to learn, don't you think?"

Dumbledore simply smiled and led the way down the stairs.

-

The first day of the term that would begin sixth year for Ron and Hermione still felt like summer in the south of England. While English summers have few truly hot days, the morning on which the Weasleys were to make their way to the station to meet the Hogwarts Express was still warm, and gave Ron a feeling that he should stay in bed and relax for a while before starting the harried rush to the train that began every school year. Molly put a stop to that idea right away, and - much earlier than he would have liked - Ron was dressed and dragging his trunk downstairs to where his parents waited to drive him and Ginny to the depot.

Everything was in order much more quickly than had been the case in years past. Molly kept looking around nervously, convinced that she had forgotten some of her children. But Percy was working at the Ministry, Fred and George were in business for themselves, and Bill and Charlie had both been overseas pursuing their own careers for years. On this day, there were only Ron and Ginny to pack off to school, and the orderliness and practicality of shepherding only two children disoriented Mrs. Weasley. She took her discomfort out on Arthur by taking issue with his insistence on using a muggle artifact - an automobile - to transport them all to the station. She worried that the car would run out of fuel, that the traffic would be too heavy, and a dozen other things besides.

Arthur, for his part, was melancholy. At least Ron still had two years of school to go. Once Arthur's youngest son had graduated Hogwarts, there would be no way for the man to deny his advancing age. Even his baby, Ginny, was undeniably an adolescent, who had grown into a very attractive young lady. She looked quite a bit like her mother had looked at her age, and Arthur wondered when he had given up his fantasy that his daughter, at least, was still a tiny child, and had admitted to himself that she - and all of his sons - were either growing up... or already grown. It had been very recently, he knew. And that had been long after Ginny herself had started thinking that she was very much an adult. Arthur knew that his daughter had suffered some experiences that had cruelly and criminally given her a glimpse of the worst parts of adult thought. The episode with Tom Riddle's diary had been horrible, and had made Arthur wish that, when the Order of the Phoenix defeated Voldemort, Arthur would be granted a few hours to punish the so-called 'Dark Lord' for what he had done to help destroy Ginny's innocence. But despite all of her adventures, Ginny was still a very good girl, who had managed to remain mentally balanced with a solid, strong helping of common sense. With a sigh, Arthur ushered his family to the car. Three, besides himself. Wife, son, daughter. The full compliment of many families, but for him, a gathering that was almost lonely. He was used to the chaotic bustle of a family of nine, but he knew that - except for special gatherings like holidays or reunions - the nine-member Weasley family would hardly ever all be together again.

Fred and George still visited. They had kept their habit of sharing dinners with the family nearly every Sunday for quite some time. But his oldest sons were so far away, and visited so infrequently, that they were practically strangers to him now. He saw the mature men they had become and he wondered who they were now, how they lived their lives, what they really thought or felt about anything. Arthur could see the way his wife looked at Bill whenever he visited, and how she stared at his pierced ear and the generous amount of leather in his wardrobe. Arthur knew Molly worried that Bill was homosexual, but he also knew that he could never discuss it with her. His most tangential comments about Bill's appearance had brought swift and irritated changes of subject from Molly in every case. But he also knew that his wife's fierce love for all of their children would overcome whatever revelations Bill might choose to make to his mother. At least Bill was a pleasant, personable conversationalist, always engaging and entertaining throughout every visit. Charlie always seemed to be thinking about something far away whenever he came home, and he never confided to anyone in the family what those things might be. His mother would prod him, asking questions, alternately begging and bullying information from him. And Charlie didn't actually fight against that process - it didn't seem as though he were trying to keep terrible secrets from them all. But though he would answer Molly, and explain what he had been doing at work, where he had been living - even what he had eaten for breakfast, in some cases - he didn't give anyone the impression that he was really sharing any of his life with them. His attitude seemed to be that he used to live with his family, and now he lived somewhere else. And the life that was being lived far away from the family was Charlie's own, and no one else's business. The worst, though, was Percy. Arthur worked in the same building as his son. They lived - for wizards - relatively close to one another. They missed running into one another by mere seconds several times every day as their paths crossed at work. But Arthur almost never saw Percy. And he got the feeling that Percy preferred it that way. It was a heartache every time he thought about it...

"Arthur? Arthur, are you going to start the car, or wait for it to work itself?" Molly, already worried about being late (although by Arthur's reckoning, they were nearly an hour early) stared at her husband in irritation.

Arthur realized that he had been sitting in the driver's seat lost in thought, but he didn't want to admit as much. He smiled at his wife with warm gratitude "Oh. That's right. I have to start the thing, don't I? Molly, you ought to be the one working in the Muggle Artifacts office. You're always so good with these things. Maybe I could stay home and try cooking."

Molly shuddered in horror at the thought of what her husband would do with a stove. "Just drive the car, Arthur. Our children need an education."

Much to Arthur's amazement, there was a parking space near to the station entrance, and it was suitably easy to pull in to. The rest of the family, not familiar with the motorist's constant struggle to find that valuable commodity, 'a good parking place,' hardly appreciated either finding the place nor his skill in fitting his car into it. Molly, at least, was actually irritated when Arthur sat in triumph once he had pulled neatly in to the curb. He held the wheel tightly and beamed around him, admiring his car's proximity to his family's destination, the neat fit of his car within the available space, and the way several other cars cruised slowly past, their drivers glaring at him for taking the space they had wanted for themselves.

"Arthur? What is wrong with you, today?" Molly demanded. "Turn this machine off and let's get the children to the platform."

As Mister Weasley had feared, the family arrived at the station almost exactly an hour prior to their train's departure. This gave the Weasleys plenty of time to choose just when they would pass through the hidden portal that took them to Platform Nine and Three Quarters, and Arthur took the opportunity to observe muggle life in action. He was staring hard at a man purchasing a newspaper from a vending machine when his wife punched him on the shoulder.

"They're not circus freaks, Arthur," she whispered furiously.

Arthur looked back at her in shock, too baffled to make any reply.

"You haven't paid admission, or given them anything to make their lives any better," Molly scolded, "so don't stand and gawk at them as though they were museum displays, or... or animals in a zoo. They're not here for your entertainment, they're just... just magically impaired!"

Mister Weasley's face set into a stony scowl. "Let's go to the platform," he said stiffly, "where we can discuss this."

Molly was ready to argue, but the children - recognizing their father's anger - had already started toward the plain brick wall through which they would pass to reach the platform for the Hogwarts Express. Mrs. Weasley hurried after them, not wanting her children out of her sight in such a potentially dangerous place as the train station.

Once the four Weasleys had made the passage through the wall, and were all standing on Platform Nine and Three Quarters, Arthur turned to his wife and addressed her in a grating, labored voice that revealed how uncomfortable Mister Weasley was whenever he was angry. "Molly, I have spent my entire professional career studying those people. My office is concerned with their works, exclusively. True, our charter is to prevent wizards and witches from misusing muggle artifacts. Which is good. With all of the power we already possess, we hardly need to go bringing some muggle things, like guns, into our society and doing damage with them. But quite opposite from viewing those people as... what did you say? As zoo animals... I find that I have the greatest respect for them. That's right, respect. Because they are magically impaired. That is a beautiful way to put it, Molly. They are magically impaired. And like a blind man learning to listen - and thus giving the sighted people around him the impression that his hearing has improved to 'compensate' for his lost sight - the muggles have made ingenious things to solve problems differently from the way we would. Not to 'compensate' for the lack of magic, but to live their lives as fully and richly as they possibly can..."

Molly Weasley had been glaring at her husband, angry that one of their rare arguments was ruining the occasion that they were really here for: seeing their children off to a new school term. Arthur had expected the glare, and the hard, determined stance his wife assumed whenever she was challenged. But he was surprised to see her gaze shift away from him, her eyes focus somewhere far behind him, and her expression completely change. He turned to look over his shoulder and immediately understood what Molly's outburst in the muggle portion of the station had been all about. He had gotten the message wrong, and he would have to do something... once the kids were on their way... to let his wife know that he understood what had caused her upset. Arthur stopped speaking, turned around, and slipped his arm around his wife's waist. He managed a smile and waved cheerfully to the new arrivals on the platform, the Grangers.

Molly felt her husband's tension ebb as he held her. That told her, more accurately than anything he could have said, that he finally understood what their disagreement had been about. But men were such plodding, literal-minded creatures, she would have to allow him to apologize with a day of shopping followed by a nice dinner and perhaps a play, since they were in London already. And maybe even something more. Possibly after the show, they could go somewhere cozy and romantic for drinks and then apparate directly back to their own bedroom. Arthur could go fetch the ridiculous automobile tomorrow. There could be some advantages to having the children gone off to school after all.

But the rest of her feelings were not so easily dealt with. She had seen the Grangers entering the platform - Hermione striding forward with complete confidence, her parents looking rather awestruck, as they frequently did around magical places and situations - at the very moment Arthur had been going on and on about 'those people.' It was the most awkward situation Molly could have foreseen, and surely enough it had come to pass. Fortunately, Arthur had realized who was approaching and had shut up quickly. So there was one potential embarrassment avoided. But although Molly smiled and waved, she could not be said to be happy about meeting the Grangers again. She could sense her son nearby, and was peripherally aware that he seemed to have grown several inches. All that had actually happened was that Ron had drawn himself up to his full height - not strutting as a boy might do while trying to catch a girl's attention, but standing with the kind of confident pride a boy had who knew the girl's attention was already his. Molly focused on that approaching girl for a moment. Hermione was bright, cheerful, and a very respectable young lady... the very kind of girl Molly would like if Hermione weren't sinking her claws into Ron. Molly was convinced that her son could do better if he would only apply himself to the task. Hermione was kind of a lumpy potato of a girl, her nose too big, her eyes uneven, her hair such a dreary brown. And as smart as she undoubtably was, she did tend to be bossy and to come off as a know it all. But those disadvantages could be overlooked easily enough. Some of the finest women in witch history had been plain, and every mother needed to be authoritarian on occasion - Molly herself had to admit to resorting to the use of sheer force of personality to keep her unruly children in line in certain rare instances.

What could not be so easily overlooked were the pair of people walking behind Hermione. Molly tried to see them as good people with professional careers who had somehow adjusted to the fact of their daughter having powers they never believed possible - and belonging to a society they never would have believed existed. But she couldn't.

They were muggles.

Molly had never said this to Ron. She had never given in to her urge to shout at him, to look into his eyes and demand of him - with all of the girls at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - why, Son, why could you not have found someone of our own kind?

Oh, Hermione had magic of her own, that was certain. But her success at school was all due - as she had said herself - to 'books and cleverness.' She studied. She practiced. She paid attention in class. She worked hard at developing her magic. And so, at school she passed her tests with flying colors and received grades that the scions of the most traditional wizard families could only envy.

But as Molly watched the little family group approaching her own across the platform, as she saw her son's future mother in law and father in law smiling and waving, she saw a girl who was a foreigner, desperately trying to fit into an alien world, and two adults with whom she would never have a really comfortable conversation. There would always be a 'translation' step after any statement. They may as well hire an interpreter to help provide both sides with the basic assumptions that were necessary for either couple to understand what the other was talking about.

Molly was not prejudiced. She did not hate muggles, nor needlessly belittle them. She had never called anyone a 'mudblood.' She gone through her entire life without following any of the traditional wizarding social-practice forms. She believed that the arrogance which drove the modern followers of such traditions was born of fear and insecurity. And worse, the fanaticism that arose from the worship of the old ways and the ancient bloodlines led to atrocities such as Voldemort's. That nonsense was contemptible, and she was proud to stand with her husband and Albus Dumbledore in direct opposition to the Tom Riddles and Lucius Malfoys of this world.

But her son was going to marry a muggle-born girl, and Molly did not relish the prospect of struggling to communicate with her in-laws to be.

She had brought the subject up to Arthur after the last time Hermione had visited the Burrow. Arthur had laughed! He had said that Hermione was Ron's first serious affair, but that he didn't believe that the romance would end in marriage. Molly had fired question after question back at him. They were all rhetorical, so there was no need to waste time waiting for him to try to reply. And that was a good thing, too. There were no answers to these questions that fit his ridiculous view of the situation! 'So why was the girl staying at our home?' 'Why was Ron spending the night in the Grangers' muggle house?' 'Why were the kids spending their entire summer break together, or planning to be together, or writing to each other about how wonderful it had been to be together?' 'Didn't he remember their own courtship, how young they had been... how passionate they had been?' Arthur had merely sighed and pointed out that the children had been well-chaperoned and no harm had been done. Molly had been furious, and they had both gone to bed angry that night - a practice that Molly and Arthur both tried to avoid.

Of course, Molly knew that Arthur was interested in the Grangers for no better reason than that they were muggles. He wanted to talk about telephones and automobiles, power chisels and blendmasters, and all the cluttered claptrap of lives lived without the benefit of any magic at all.

And as she had known would happen, here went Arthur once again, extending his hand to Mister Granger, and asking about something called a selfown even before the greetings had all been exchanged.

Molly was saying hello to Mrs. Granger when something registered on her parental radar - something strange enough that she had to turn away from her just-begun conversation to look at it more directly. Hermione had gone straight toward Ron, as Molly had expected. Mrs. Weasley had hoped that the children's public show of affection would not be sufficiently prurient to require parental intervention. But what had happened was even more shocking. Hermione had hugged Ron briefly - a squeeze of a second or less - and had immediately pulled away from the boy to greet Ginny! Molly turned toward the children, only to find Hermione directly in front of her, stepping up to deliver a warm, affectionate hug... a hug, Molly couldn't help but notice, of significantly longer duration than the quick squeeze she had allowed Ron. Arthur was next in line, and he, too, received an enthusiastic, loving embrace.

This left Ron gaping in disbelief. Realizing that something might be expected of him, he turned to Hermione's parents. "Uh... Hi," he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. His greeting was returned with warm smiles. Ron wasn't quite sure what had happened, but he was nowhere near as confident, or as cocky, as he had been moments before.

Hermione chattered away happily, catching the adult Weasleys up on her plans for the coming term - and drawing some irritated glances from Ginny and Ron as she described the organization she had applied to her studies even before school had begun. Molly was certainly impressed with one thing: Hermione had her entire schedule worked out, along with her strategy for getting from one class to the next on time, despite the frequently long and difficult walks between rooms. She had also arranged for some empty periods between classes, to allow her to complete an assignment given in the previous class before going on to the next one. She had already read part of each class' textbook, as well, and sounded almost apologetic as she explained that with such a high volume of recommended summer reading, she hadn't had time to finish them all. Ron and Ginny, by contrast, knew what subjects they were to be taking, but had no idea what hours of which days those classes would be held. And while Molly had made sure each of her children had completed the minimum 'recommended reading' for the summer, she was quite aware that neither had read anything above that minimum, nor had they opened any of their textbooks.

Hermione was happily describing her extensive owl-posts with the school over the summer, apparently oblivious to the glares coming from the younger Weasleys, when she recalled something tangential to class scheduling, and interrupted her story to announce, "Oh, that's another strange thing. Neville's working in the Herbology Department. He's apparently been there all alone for the past few weeks, keeping the collection of plants healthy without any teachers' assistance whatsoever. He's apparently doing great. And Harry is gone, I have no idea where."

"Do you think he'll be joining you on the train today, then?" Molly inquired sweetly.

Hermione got no chance to answer. Ginny's face twisted into a fierce snarl as she spat, "Harry." Her voice carried a bitterness beyond her years as she grated, "If he does join us today, I know what I'll say to him first. Thanks for the letters, Harry. Thanks for coming back to visit us more than once. Thanks for staying in touch."

Ron gaped at his little sister, truly shocked at her vehemence. "God, Ginn, you think maybe you came on too strong last time he came by? You think you might have scared him off?"

Ginny tossed her hair back with a quick shake of her head. Haughtily, her voice icy, she insisted, "I expressed an interest." Her expression contorted into a mask of fury once again as she glared directly into her brother's eyes and snarled, "Which he threw back into my face." She turned her back on her brother and smiled sweetly at the Grangers, who were striving to pretend they had not noticed the exchange.

Molly encouraged Hermione to talk about the coming term some more, since that would prolong the time during which she would not have to search for a topic of conversation to share with Mrs. Granger. Hermione gladly complied, describing how each of her classes would contribute to her studies for passing her N.E.W.T.s. But both families had arrived at the platform early, and soon enough, Ginny asked Hermione about some of the other students at Hogwarts, Arthur took the opportunity to inquire about selfowns again - a subject about which Mister Granger was eager to expound - and the two adult women were facing one another directly. Molly had no idea what to say, and she was shocked at how the other woman began their conversation.

"I was reading the Daily Prophet this morning..."

Molly shook her head quickly, not quite believing her ears. "You get the Prophet?"

"Well..." Mrs. Granger said with a grin, looking toward her daughter. "Technically, Hermione gets the paper. She subscribed... when was it? Some time ago, anyway. I love the moving pictures, although the writing tends to be a bit... strident, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh... yes..." Molly replied distractedly. Mrs. Granger was being quite charitable in her assessment of the newspaper's tone. Saying the Prophet was 'a bit strident' was like saying an apparating elephant was 'a little noisy.' But for a muggle household to subscribe to the Prophet... "How do you...?" Molly tried to ask delicately, and realized that she had merely left a vague question hanging. Mrs. Granger picked up the thread of her inquiry right away, though.

"By owl post, of all things," she laughed. "Every morning, like clockwork."

"With all of Hermione's school correspondence, you must have quite a number of owls around your house every day."

Mrs. Granger actually blushed. "We do, and I hope it hasn't caused any... you know... problems. I suppose your husband might have heard if there had been any complaints. Because he works on... um... non-magical difficulties. Doesn't he?"

"Misuse of... non-magical... artifacts, actually," Mrs. Weasley corrected automatically.

"Oh. Well. The thing is, we do have some retired people in our neighborhood, and they feed the local birds with feeders and seed blocks and by scattering bread crumbs. They all keep bird baths filled in their yards. Some of them have gotten quite good at spotting the regular birds, and identifying each one, and they are all very interested in any unexpected bird that flies by. So this summer, when all of these different owls started arriving - they never seem to see them while the birds are carrying parcels or letters, only after they have delivered - so far. But there were all these owls, all different varieties, all out in daylight... it's driven our neighborhood bird-watchers a little bit crazy. They can't explain it, so they have their binoculars out, and their field guides to common British birds, and they're trying to figure out what has caused such an upheaval in the lives of the owl population. I feel a little bit guilty for getting them all worked up like that, when the whole answer is nothing but the regular owl post, but... I can't very well tell them about it, can I?"

"No. No, you certainly can't. But I'm sorry, I interrupted what you were about to say. You were reading in the Prophet this morning...?"

"Yes. Your Minister Fudge has come under quite a bit of an attack - by our children's schoolmaster. Albus Dumbledore was quoted, quite extensively, being very critical of Minister Fudge on a number of topics. All of which sounded very well-founded. But then again, there was no rebuttal. Nor was there any attempt at leavening the tone of the report on the part of the writer. In fact, the text surrounding the quotes seemed to be calculated to be as inflammatory as possible."

"I'm sorry I missed it. We were in such a rush to leave this morning, I didn't even look through the newspaper."

"Oh. Here, then." Mrs. Granger reached into her large handbag and drew out that morning's copy of the Prophet, already turned back to the article featuring Dumbledore. It was consigned to the back pages, but Molly was quite aware of the recurring strategies used by the Prophet, and could guess that this story had been broken on the back pages so that it could work its way forward in successive days' editions with increasingly vehement quotes from both sides until it was furious enough to splash across the front page with some lurid headline implying an ongoing war between the Headmaster and the Minister. "Since this concerned the school, we wanted to discuss it with Hermione on the way to the station. Last year, there was some problem with Ministry interference in the school. I wanted to make sure Hermione would keep us informed if anything like that happened again."

Molly's face darkened as she recalled the various indignities that had been inflicted upon Hogwarts in the Ministry's name during the past school year. "There certainly were. And it's a very good idea for you to keep a sharp lookout for more of the same. In fact, the parents need to be united to prevent such things from happening in the first place. We should keep in touch during the year... so that we would be ready to speak up as a united group of parents whenever it became necessary."

Mrs. Granger smiled. "I'd like that. I'm not sure quite how we should get word to one another. We could always write... but the way your husband is asking about cell phones, I'll bet we'll have an even quicker means of communication soon."

-

Ron and Hermione boarded the train early, chose a compartment, then roamed the length of the train looking for people they knew. They ran across Crabbe and Goyle, who snarled in a half-hearted way and passed by without saying anything. Apparently, without Malfoy, they were too disorganized to be insulting, let alone any sort of threat.

Many of the people they had known best would not be on this train. Oliver Wood had graduated, as had many of the popular Gryffindors of the class two years ahead of their own, and Neville was already at school. By the time the train was ready to leave, there had been no sign of Harry, nor of Draco Malfoy. Ron and Hermione returned to their compartment, while Ginny went off to find some of her friends, leaving the other two alone.

Almost as soon as the compartment door clicked shut behind Ginny, Ron was reaching out toward Hermione. She turned a neat pirouette and placed her handbag on the rack above their seats. Ron positioned himself so that if Hermione were to take a step away from the rack, she would walk directly into his arms. She stood unmoving.

"Hermione, aren't you going to give me a proper hello kiss?" There was hurt in Ron's voice.

"Ron, we are on the train." Hermione's voice was completely neutral.

"Yes, the train. The Hogwarts Express, on which, even as we speak, boyfriends and girlfriends are giving each other proper hello kisses somewhere in every single car, most of them with audiences much larger than the zero we currently enjoy."

Hermione regarded him with a stern look. "I am not your toy, Ron."

"But you are my girl."

"I don't like that possessive."

"Huh?" Ron had not expected any kind of argument. To have his grammar called into question was completely baffling.

"Your girlfriend. Your girl. Yours. I don't like that. I'm mine. We had fun this summer..."

Ron's face went blank, his voice became cold. "Well, I'll be damned."

"No, you won't," Hermione responded primly. "We didn't do anything bad..."

"That's what I'm talking about," Ron growled. "I slept at your house, inches away from you - except for the damned wall between our rooms. And I'm thinking, 'Be patient, she loves you, be gentle, go slow.' I was an idiot, wasn't I? You never had any intention of having sex with me at all, did you?"

"If you could hear yourself now, you'd know why..."

"What was it, then? 'We had fun this summer.' Listen to your own self! We DID have fun this summer. And at the end of last school year. And for years before that, when we were... when I wasn't trying to fool myself that I had a girlfriend. You liked me. I know that. I thought you loved me. So what was it?"

Hermione sighed, a long-suffering, tired sound. "Ron, did you do the recommended reading?"

Ron's mouth worked for a while, trying to find a word to form. His eyebrows drew close together, his eyes squinted. But try as he might, he could not quite make the jump from having a breakup argument with the girl he loved to answering questions from that girl about a school assignment that was optional, in any case. "What?"

Hermione shook her head slowly. "The Hogwarts Recommended Reading List for Students Entering Sixth Year. Did you read it?"

"I read the minimum. Mom made me..." Ron clamped his mouth shut, but realized that he had been too late, and had revealed too much.

"Yes. Your mother made you. You read the minimum because it was easier to do that than it was to fight your mother. Do you remember me telling you what I had done when I got home for summer, the very first thing after I said hello to my parents? I started reading the first book on the list. And why did I do that?"

"Because you're a glutton for punishment," Ron muttered disgustedly.

"No, Ron," Hermione insisted earnestly. "Because I'm not! I didn't want to lose the rhythm of studying, or forget how to take notes or how to review. I didn't want to lay around doing nothing and then try to tackle the list after I had already lost time. And when I came to visit, and asked you what you had read, what did you tell me?"

Ron's mouth was set in a hard line. "I believe I told you I had read 'Quiddich Today.' So what, you're breaking up with me because you don't like the way I do optional homework?"

"No," Hermione replied gently. "I am breaking up with you because you don't pay any attention at all to what excites me. I come to your house excited about what I have read, and you're all dismissive, like 'That's old 'Mione, always with her nose in a book.' What about the ideas and the knowledge and the real, practical power I get out of reading those books? Or don't even think about that. What about the simple fact that I am excited about it?

"I - your girlfriend.

"Am - the situation presented to you when you see me.

"Excited - you ought to understand that one well enough, it's what you wanted me to be.

"About Reading - that refers to all those books I always have my nose in.

"'Your - Girlfriend - Is - Excited.' That ought to turn on some kind of light in your head. But you never took the next little step. You never asked yourself... or me... or your mother's antique crystal ball... what on Earth it was that had made Your Girlfriend Excited. When I told you directly, you dismissed it as ridiculous. It's frustrating, Ron. I came to your house to share, and to talk about ideas. And you didn't want to. You came to my house and I wanted to show you my books. Not because I wanted you to admire the paper and the binding, but because of the ideas in them. And you couldn't wait to brush them away and kiss me and take me out to entertainments and for food. We ate, we saw movies, we rode a roller coaster. All fun things. But while we were doing all of that, what did we talk about? Nothing on the Recommended Reading list, that's for sure."

"Didn't you like kissing me?"

At that, Hermione did step forward, and put her arms loosely around him. She met his eyes directly, and with a gentle smile, she did kiss him... a delicate, sisterly peck. "Ron. I loved kissing you. But we're not really very well suited to each other. Even this argument is a disaster. It's like we're speaking two different languages. Look, I'm going to roam about the train for a while, see if I can find any of the people I'll be sharing classes with. I'll come back for my trunk when we get there, all right? I mean... I'm not expecting you to look after my things. I just meant that I'll be back later. A lot later. I... should go, now. But Ron, you are right about one thing. I do love you. It's... You're... You'll be a lot happier as someone else's boyfriend." She gave him a warm squeeze and stepped past him quickly, clicking open the compartment door and disappearing down the aisle in an instant.

Ron stood unmoving for a long while. She loved him. She was frustrated. She had fun. She should go now. Right. It made no sense. It should have made him furious. Instead, he was only numb. He sat alone in his compartment. It was several miles later that he began to cry, tears rolling down his face as he sat silently, staring unseeing out of the window.

-

Ron and Hermione did not see each other when the train stopped. Ron had pulled his trunk down and dragged it into a completely different car before disembarking. He chose a coach populated by a number of younger students and rode in silence as the others chattered around him.

During the sorting ceremony, Ron looked around for Harry, and soon gave up that search. Harry had missed nearly all of every sorting except for his own during their first year. But Neville had been at Hogwarts all along. He should have been somewhere in the throng. Still, after searching the entire crowd, Ron had not spotted him.

Once the sorting had been completed and the House members were all seated at their separate tables, Dumbledore stood behind his place at the head table, McGonagall sat at her place to the Headmaster's right hand, and the rest of the staff filed in. Flitwick and Trelawney entered together, laughing together at something. Madame Hooch and Madame Pomfrey came into the hall intently discussing something or other, concentrating so hard on whatever it was that they didn't even acknowledge the gathered students before them. Even Professor Binns made an appearance, floating through the hall, and right through the table itself, drawing oohs and ahhs from the first years. Binns could not be bothered to stay for anything as mortal in nature as a feast, however, and he drifted through the far wall and was gone. Ron was watching for Snape, still afraid of the man, even though there were no Potions classes on Ron's schedule for that entire year. But no Snape arrived. Instead, a loud clunking announced the lumbering approach of Mad-Eye Moody. There was a rumble of apprehension throughout the room at his appearance. He sat at a place where no plate nor glass had been set. Those who remembered his last tenure at Hogwarts realized that such a place setting only made sense for a man who would consume nothing that he hadn't prepared himself. Mad-Eye was followed by an unfamiliar woman, and then by Neville Longbottom, who sat at the head table looking out at his fellow students with a sort of dazed smile. All of the staff was present, but there was still no sign of Snape.

Lee Jordan leaned over to Colin Creevey and loudly whispered, "God help us all. Neville Longbottom is teaching potions this year!"

Colin's head snapped up, his eyes wide, staring at the staff table. The boy on the other side of Colin tapped insistently on his shoulder. "What is it?"

"Longbottom is teaching Potions!"

The whisper travelled quickly around the table, and was picked up by whisperers at other tables. Soon the entire hall was hissing with the news: "Neville Longbottom is teaching Potions!"

Suddenly, a fifth-year Hufflepuff, Ian Whitcolm, leapt from his table, screaming. He began to dash toward the tall double doors at the end of the hall.

Standing behind the head table, Dumbledore spoke only one word. "Stop!"

Albus Dumbledore was world-famous as a powerful wizard. But there was an even greater power within him than that of his magic. He had the power of leadership, a natural sense of command. At the Headmaster's single word, all of the whispering in the room ceased instantly. Ian Whitcolm stood as though surrounded by guards, looking fearfully back at the head table.

Dumbledore raised his head so that he was looking down his long nose at the cowering boy. He wasted no words, simply announcing in a questioning tone, "Mister Whitcolm?"

"I don't want to die!" the terrified boy cried.

This drew comments and laughter from various parts of the room. A sweeping look from the Headmaster extinguished the sounds of derision. In a kindly voice, Dumbledore assured the boy, "Nor do I wish to allow that to happen to you." Whitcolm stood frozen, lower lip trembling. "Sit Down, Mister Whitcolm," the Headmaster commanded, and Ian trudged back to his seat with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man returning to death row after a frustrated escape attempt. Dumbledore scanned the room once again, assuring himself of the silence of the assembled students before continuing. "For the benefit of the first year students, I will be introducing the entire Hogwarts staff. For the benefit of everyone, I will begin by introducing members of the faculty who are new... or who are returning to us after an absence. First of all, I would like to introduce our newest... and by far our youngest... staff member, our Professor of Herbology, Neville Longbottom!"

A relieved sigh issued from the entire student body, along with some groans from those angry at having been fooled into believing that Longbottom was going to teach Potions. Ian Whitcolm broke down into combined tears and laughter, his relief was so great. Then there was silence which lasted long enough for Neville to become quite red faced from embarrassment before someone at the Gryffindor table remembered his manners and began to applaud. There followed a rousing round of applause from most of the room, and a barely polite tapping of palms from the Slytherin table, before the next introduction.

When Dumbledore presented Pennyroyal Routhe, she stood and beamed at the crowd. "Hello, dears," she gushed. "I will be taking over your Potions curriculum, and I trust we will all have a great deal of fun and learn a great many useful techniques that will serve you all well throughout your lives. I have taken the liberty of making sure your Potions classes are more well-lit this year than ever before - I believe everyone will benefit from that. And I would like to assure all of you that whenever you need help with anything, that you may always feel free to come visit me in my office."

She sat down amid a stunned silence. 'Great deal of fun?' 'Feel free to come visit?' These couldn't possibly be the statements of a Potions Professor, could they? And by what means had she 'taken the liberty' of making Potions classes more well lit? The dungeons of Hogwarts were dark by their very nature. Even the flames used to heat the cauldrons gave out less light in that environment than they would anywhere else. What could this strange woman possibly mean? Once again, there was a long - and this time, very confused - silence before someone clapped his hands and began a round of applause.

Dumbledore introduced Mad-Eye Moody next. The scarred man stood, his artificial leg scraping the ground more loudly than did his chair as he pushed it back to rise. His magical eye spun wildly in its socket, and his already scowling face took on an expression of grim challenge. "So!" He bellowed, and every student in the room - even those who thought they had been prepared for it - jumped. "I suppose you believe you're all safe... that you live in a safe world, that you go to a safe school. I suppose you have heard your parents... or your grandparents... tell you that the last war solved all of our problems, and that it's all over." He stood glaring at the gathered students, searching for strength and finding only weakness. He stayed silent for a long moment. When he next spoke, his voice shook the room. "It is not over! The evil of dark wizardry is stronger now than it has been in years! And you are all vulnerable to it!" He leaned forward, reaching out and clutching one hand closed as though to grab dark wizardry and display it all to them. With quiet intensity, he said, "I will provide you with the tools you will need to survive these threats. In your other classes, you will be studying for a grade. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, you will be studying to save your lives... and your very souls." He sat, leaving a shaken student body gaping at him. There was a bare pattering of applause. Moody himself hardly seemed to take any notice of it.

The feast following the rest of the introductions was as spectacular as any Hogwarts feast, but Ron ate little and tasted none of it. He left the hall as soon as he could, and climbed to Gryffindor Tower. The Fat Lady had taken pity on the children returning from a long summer - and on the first years, none of whom would have been familiar with the need for passwords to get into their own bedrooms - and she had chosen a relatively simple word for this term's first password. "Disappearance" was the word. Ron thought it appropriate. It certainly fit his mood.

He couldn't stand the sight of the common room, nor the thought that Hermione would soon be there, so he went up to his own room immediately. It felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Harry hadn't shown himself yet, and Neville had taken other quarters. No one else had come upstairs, yet, so Ron had the room to himself. He felt as though he were in a cell. He looked out of the window at the dark grounds surrounding Hogwarts, and felt the chill in the air. Summer was over.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

The next morning, Harry was awakened by a raucous voice shouting. The shouter seemed to be about an inch from the edge of Harry's ear. An inch deeper into his head than the ear itself, that is. The shouting itself was insistent, but perversely cheerful for so early in the day.

"Arise, Slugabed! First day of school! Can't have you lolling about in listless indolence all day!"

Coming slowly to wakefulness, Harry realized that the calling must have been going on for some time. It was only the last few exclamations that he had been able to make any sense of. He had perceived the previous calls as mere noise. They had impressed themselves onto his dreams, turning whatever fantasy he had been enjoying into a nightmare. Harry forced his eyes partway open and tried to sit up. He made it about halfway to a sitting position, and settled for propping himself up on his elbows. He fully intended to roundly chastise whoever this loud ruiner of the morning may have been. "Whuuh..." he croaked and fell silent, gathering his strength for another attempt. His blurry vision resolved into the permanent out-of-focus that were the best Harry's eyes could achieve without his glasses. Even in the fuzzy outlines of his uncorrected vision, Harry could tell that his tormentor was Remus Lupin, standing there relaxed and alert, freshly bathed and completely dressed... and smiling. Harry was quite aware that it was possible to get up freakishly early, get ready to meet whatever challenges the day was to offer, and even accomplish good work long before a reasonable person would be considering breakfast. But for Remus to stand there smiling before the room was bright with sunlight was somehow obscene.

"Come on, Harry," Remus grinned, lightly clapping his hands as he bounced on the balls of his feet. "If this were Hogwarts, you'd be at breakfast in the Hall, already. Since we have no Hall, I have taken the liberty of preparing our breakfast today. You can be a little less formal in our kitchen than you could breakfasting with the entire Hogwarts student body, so I let you sleep in a little. But you don't want our morning meal to get cold, so hop up, get something on, and come to table. Sometime today, lad."

With that portion of his mind that was still asleep, Harry envisioned his reply. In a stentorian tone, with the rhythms and motions of a Shakespearean stage performer, Harry would declaim, "This torment is not meet, nor does my resting brain deserve the hellish fires of wakefulness thus imposed upon it in such a manner. Your offer of a repast with which to break our fast is the temptation of a clever fiend - but it is no more than another case of too little, too early." With the portion of his mind that was consciously engaged and able to send instructions to his mouth, he voiced his reply. "Thizz no righ'. Doun desrvit."

Lupin was prepared to be tolerant to a point, but this was becoming ridiculous. Harry was at his absolute worst in the early morning, even after he had enjoyed sufficient sleep for the night. Against the kinds of enemies Harry would be facing, a tendency toward slow awakening and morning bleariness could prove fatal. "Come on, Conqueror of the World, you have work to do and enemies to avoid," Remus scolded. "If Voldemort saw you now, he'd fry you where you lie."

Harry nodded resignedly. It was true. He was intending to challenge the most destructively evil dark wizard of the past few generations, and he would be at a severe disadvantage in that contest if he couldn't even drag himself out of bed. But that thought led to another, and as he sat up and turned to put his feet on the floor, he inquired about it. "Remus... Does Voldemort sleep?"

Remus snorted in combined annoyance and amusement. "I don't know, Harry. I know very little about the man. Let's go ask the expert."

Harry dragged his robe on, leaving his feet bare. The constant irritation of the cold floor on his soles would help keep him from falling back to sleep over breakfast. He walked out to the small table in the kitchen and sat heavily on the bench seat built out from the wall especially for that table. Severus was elsewhere, so Remus didn't linger in the kitchen, but went immediately to find him. Harry scanned the counters, hoping to find the evidence of one of Snape's few vices. Since the potions master was a notoriously early riser, frequently hard at work before dawn, Harry did not really expect to discover what he sought. But despite his pessimism, there on the counter next to the stove stood a pot with the odd straining device still in place over it. Harry dragged himself back out from behind the table and reached out to feel the side of the pot. Warm. He lifted it experimentally. Heavy. He blinked heavily twice and tried to remember what it was he needed. Oh, yes. Cup. Where were they. Probably... he opened a tall cupboard to discover a half-dozen mismatched cups on a shelf. He took one, poured the hot, black liquid from the pot into his cup, and tasted it. "Ow," he said dully as the hot coffee crossed his tongue. Then, with greater focus and a lot more irritation, "Ow," again. He sucked in air to cool his mouth, and his nose wrinkled as the taste of the brew registered for the first time. "Bleaugh," was his succinct summary of the flavor. The brew had probably been made some time ago, and possibly kept warm through the use of a charm. Warming charms tended to allow some of the water content to steam away, and usually let the essence of coffee bean cook, no matter how gently the charms were cast. Harry went to the cold-box and pulled out a bottle of milk, adding a dollop to his cup. As he replaced the milk, he stared at the cold-box, straining to remember.

Charms could do a lot of the work that muggles used household appliances to accomplish. A cold-box was simply charmed to stay cold. There were no compressors, no special gasses, and no interruption of function due to loss of electrical power. Plenty of advantages in that respect. There were also freezer-boxes that could be kept so cold that water would freeze into ice. And the converse was true as well, with warming charms keeping food and beverages hot. A skilled - and practiced - spellcaster could animate almost an entire kitchen, magically automating meal preparation, as Molly Weasley frequently did. It was dangerous to enter the kitchen right before a large family feast at the Weasleys' home - an unsuspecting person could collide with a flying kettle or be beaten with wooden spoons, charmed to continue stirring until ordered to stop.

But Harry had an impression... admittedly, a years-old impression from a time during which he had been only a baby... but a strong impression nonetheless, that his parents had used a refrigerator for their food, and a gas range for their cooking. Why he believed this, he couldn't say. Why he felt it to be significant was easier to explain. If he had simply imposed his impressions of the Dursley house over his memories of his parents' home, substituting the Dursleys' muggle appliances for the charmed items his parents had used, then he actually remembered even less of his earliest life than the precious little he believed he retained. And if he were right... who could have switched the electric and gas appliances for magical ones? This house was the 'place the world forgot,' or so Snape had said, and so it had seemed. Had someone - some witch or wizard - moved in here and used the place during the years Harry had remained unaware of its existence? And if so... was it merely a case of squatters living here, or of enemies trying to gain another advantage over the Boy Who Lived? He would have to bring it up with the adults who were helping him. There was no way he could figure it out on his own... at least not at this time in the morning.

He shuffled back to the bench behind the table, eyes half-closed, and slid his elbows onto the table's surface, supporting his face with his hands, holding his nose directly over the steaming coffee cup. The aroma was powerful, and Harry thought he could feel himself coming awake from the stimulant carried to him by the steam. He tried a few more sips. The taste was not as awful with the addition of milk to the brew, but it still had an old and slightly burnt flavor. Harry decided that it didn't matter that much, since he was only drinking it to help him wake up.

He was about half done with his first cup when Remus bustled back into the kitchen and began uncovering pans which, like the coffee pot, had been charmed to keep their contents warm. He took three plates from the cupboard, but only filled two of them with scrambled eggs, pancakes and sausages. He held onto the sausage pan as Severus Snape walked into the kitchen, his expression betraying his irritation at having been disturbed at whatever he had been doing that morning. "Professor Snape?" Remus called out cheerfully, "will you join us for breakfast?"

Snape looked down his nose at the pans, the filled plates, the empty plate, and the food remaining to be dished out, which just happened to be one more complete serving. Harry was completely surprised when Snape nodded once and said, "Yes, thank you. Since I have been taken away from my work, I might as well stop and enjoy breakfast. I appreciate your effort in preparing it." He sat down on one of the hard wooden chairs at the side of the table and scowled at Harry's coffee cup. "Is the brew to your liking, Mister Potter?" he sneered, clearly aware that it had been warming too long to remain very good.

Harry sighed, frustrated at being so predictable, and admitted, "It's old, it's burnt, and it was probably too strong for my taste when it was first brewed. But it's helping me wake up, so I guess it is to my liking, after all. What were you working on, Professor?"

Snape's upper lip curled very slightly as he said, "A stimulant. For you. In the morning."

Harry pursed his lips and forced himself to bite back any number of sarcastic replies that sprang to mind. He took a breath, using that time to remind himself that he had resolved to try to see things from different perspectives whenever possible. He thought of what Remus had said that morning, and tried to put himself in Snape's position. Would Harry Potter, lying in bed morning after morning, look like a spoiled, lazy, immature boy through Snape's eyes? Probably. Harry knew that Snape had no patience for apologies if they were not accompanied by action intended to remedy the situation which had made the apology necessary, so Harry resolved to work on getting out of bed earlier, and presenting a more coherent face to the world as he did so every day. He met Snape's eyes. "I guess I deserved that. Remus has reminded me of some of the dangers of being a slow riser. I'll work on it. So, what were you working on this morning?"

Snape's face remained completely expressionless as he repeated, "A stimulant. For you. In the morning." Harry gaped wordlessly back at the man for a long moment, but when Remus slid plates of food in front of them, and drew up another of the wooden chairs for himself, Snape relaxed slightly and explained. "Mister Lupin has only recently realized the danger that your morning semi-consciousness presents to all of us: to you, because you are quite vulnerable to an enemy attack in that condition, and to the rest of us because - if you are destroyed by an attack made in force, with a large number of the enemy involved - the werewolf and I would never stand a chance of defeating an army. And, without the threat of you, Voldemort would feel free to attack more openly, Dumbledore would be even more manipulative, and Fudge... I don't even want to think about the havoc he could cause. So, I was attempting to develop a stimulant that could be used with regularity, but without the side effects for which stimulants have long been infamous."

Harry looked down at his slender body. "You mean like losing weight?"

"No," Snape denied with a fierceness that caused both Harry and Remus to look at the man with concern. "I mean emotional impairment: rage, impatience, inability to concentrate, ungrounded fear. I mean nervous impairment: trembling and loss of fine motor control. I mean physical impairment: nausea and headaches, feelings of malaise. Worst of all, I fear your developing the feeling that you can't live without the boost given you by the stimulants that cause all of these unwanted effects. I fear your taking more and more of the substance, staying awake for days on end, becoming more and more bitter, enraged and paranoid. I fear you becoming like Voldemort himself."

Harry could tell when the time had come to change subjects, and he couldn't have asked for a better transition opportunity. "That was one of my questions, actually," he said carefully, watching Snape's face to make sure the man didn't seem angry at the change of focus. "I asked Remus, and he said you might know. Does Voldemort sleep?"

Remus began to eat, and as he did so, he caught Harry's eye, encouraging the boy to do the same. Harry cut a sausage and chewed a piece absently, but his attention was on Snape. The man was deep in thought, his eyes far away, his mind sifting clues and pieces of evidence he had never put together in quite this way before. He seemed to return to the present with an appreciative look at Harry. "For some reason," he said almost apologetically, "I have never thought of that question before. Tom Riddle - before becoming what he is today - certainly slept, and during the last war, Voldemort was almost certainly sleeping for at least some little time each day. Once he was discorporated..." Snape was lost in thought for a while longer. Harry sat staring at him until Remus tapped Harry's arm and indicated that the boy should continue eating breakfast. Snape regained focus once again and said, "The time between the moment he first tried to kill you and the time he was able to bind himself to Professor Quirrel required a constant effort, both of magic and of will, to keep him from dissipating completely. Once he had become a parasite on Quirrel, the Professor could perform all of the 'animal' functions such as eating and sleeping, while Voldemort could remain conscious, thinking and planning all the time - and even taking over the professor's body for such extraordinary pursuits as hunting unicorns. But now that he has regrown a body for himself, magical though it may be, I believe that he would revert to many of the human norms. I am fairly certain that he eats, for example. Although he is so fearful of treachery that he has never taken a bite in front of me. But I believe that he does eat. And if so, it would very likely follow that he sleeps as well. Good question, Mister Potter. Very perceptive."

Harry felt a glow of pride at that praise that was different - but no less powerful - than the feeling he had upon winning a quiddich match by capturing the golden snitch. But there was no time to bask in the glow of praise. "There's one more thing. I know it sounds strange, but... I think it might be related. Were you ever here when... uh... when my parents...?"

Snape's face had gone hard and cold. He nodded to Lupin. "I was," Remus offered.

Harry tried to keep his face neutral, but he worried that some of his desperation would show. "Was that cold-box there? Or was it something else?"

Remus looked confused. He looked at the cold-box, glanced around the kitchen and

frowned. "I believe it was that same cold-box," he said uncertainly.

"Do you know?" Harry demanded. "Or are you guessing?"

Snape smiled. The imperious tone and the specificity of the question heartened him. The boy may be on to something, or he may not. In either case, he was asking questions as a leader would ask them, demanding the information he would need to form an opinion and decide upon a course of action. 'This morning's breakfast may prove to be the turning point in transforming a directionless, rebellious boy into a world leader,' Snape thought with satisfaction. He took a bite of pancake, enjoying it immensely.

Remus thought about Harry's question for a long while before offering the most honest response he could. "When I entered this house, it seemed completely unchanged, as though everything were in exactly the same places they had been the last time I saw it. But now that you pick out one item... I must admit, when I was here last, I was much more concerned with the people in the house than the boards and mortar that made up the structure. I think that there was a cold-box there... I had assumed that it was the same one. But, as you say, I am just guessing. The box could have been moved. Or even replaced, I suppose. Why?"

Harry flushed, knowing that his explanation would sound ridiculous to both men, but also aware that he owed them his honesty. "I remember it differently," he said stiffly, and before either man could protest he continued, "I know I was only a baby, but that cold-box struck me wrong. It's like something in here has been changed. And I wonder who might have changed it."

"Given the strength of the Fidelius on this place, I don't see how anyone could have even found the house, let alone altered it in any way," Remus replied reassuringly. But the three gathered around the breakfast table knew that if anyone had been able to use the house between the time Harry had been taken from there and the time he had returned with his two companions, that there may be significant ramifications for their own occupation of the home. They discussed the possibilities as they finished their breakfasts.

-

Beauxbatons was a very different place from Hogwarts, Draco noticed on his first day of classes there. For one thing, the atmosphere was much less rampantly paranoid. The opening day speeches contained no warnings about forbidden areas of the school, or dangerous terrain surrounding it. And there were working floos all over campus. While most of these were not immediately available to the student body, anyone needing to communicate with family did not need to wait for their message to be delivered at the speed of owl. As he first stepped onto the French campus, Draco felt there was something wrong, something missing. He soon realized that what he was feeling was an absence; what was missing were the powerful wards that surrounded Hogwarts and remained active at all times. Those wards could be felt, however subliminally, as a sort of hum of power that never ceased. That hum had been the background to all of Draco's school experience up to that time. Hogwarts remained, despite the many years since the end of hostilities of the last conflict with Voldemort, a campus in a war zone. Beauxbatons might just as well have never heard of the Dark Lord or his plans for world domination. They were not concerned with security so much as they were with providing a well-rounded experience for each student. They did not fear sudden surprise attacks by Death Eaters so much as they feared that any one of their students should fall behind academically. Draco felt the pressure of this mind set immediately. He had never had trouble in any class at Hogwarts; he had even excelled in some fields. At Beauxbatons, he felt in need of remedial education on his first day. He knew he would have to read ahead in every class text to familiarize himself with concepts that Beauxbatons students had become conversant with in previous years. He was surprised, but took the revelation as a challenge: if the difficulty of studying at Beauxbatons would help him become a more powerful wizard, he was all for it. Let it be difficult. He was confident he could rise to the occasion.

Draco was not living on the campus, so it was completely unremarkable for him to ask to use one of the floos at the end of his first day of classes. A teacher he had not yet met opened one of the staff room doors for him and let him go in alone. The teacher glanced into the room to make sure there weren't any materials lying around that he shouldn't be allowed to see. She satisfied herself that the room was safe, so she left him and went back to her office across the hall.

Draco thanked her politely, waited for her to leave, then sprinkled a pinch of floo powder over the nearly-dead coals in the hearth. "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, Diagon Alley, England," he enunciated crisply. After a blur of glimpses through a number of different fireplaces, the floo granted Draco a clear view of the Weasleys' store office. The smiling face of Charlotte appeared and she greeted him with, "Weasley's. How may I..." her face fell. "Oh. It's you."

"Charming as always," Draco drawled. "Are your masters about?"

"My employers," she emphasized, "Fred and George, are... hold on... just a moment, sir, I'll connect you."

Draco scowled at the floo, baffled by her phrasing, but he soon understood. The proprietors must have just returned. They strolled into their office, and Charlotte indicated the call waiting for them as she left to mind the counter. Fred grinned toward the floo and squatted to get a better view of his caller.

"Malfoy, old man," he gushed, clearly excited. "You are a cheeky bastard, aren't you? You place the Ear and then, La-de-da, no word from you for days."

"Just tell me it works," Draco grated, unwilling to be reminded of how he had been kept out of touch by the simple expedient of having no floo at home.

"Works?" George laughed, out of view. "It's like a radio broadcast. Clear, loud, detailed... the thing is..."

"Where did you put it?" Fred finished for his brother.

"The dungeon?" George suggested.

"The attic?"

"Because wherever it is,"

"The bleeder is almost never in there."

"And even when he is in there,"

"It's just to berate his toady."

"So where is it, really?"

"In his throne room," Draco said proudly.

"The bog?" George scowled.

"No, you idiot," Draco spat. "The real throne room. With his actual bloody throne."

Both twins' faces appeared framed by the floo, side by side with equally incredulous expressions. "Where did you attach it?"

Draco smirked at the astounded pair. "Right under the bloody big seat."

Fred turned to George and scolded, "I told you we should have put the Ear into a whoopee cushion, but no. My brother thinks that the Rainbow Beard is the appropriate encapsulator. Which, you will notice, our man didn't even wish to use. And now see, stupid. He put it right under the seat. How perfect..."

"Stop!" Draco hissed. "I'm in public. In Beauxbatons. So please, keep it down, can the profanity, call me Mister Black, if you please, and say as little about... him... as possible. Just tell me what you've heard so far."

"Tough directions, Mister Black," Fred offered with a raised eyebrow. "Can you step through?"

Draco thought about it, sorely tempted. But the difficulty of returning was too great an obstacle. "Can't. We'll need to work something out, though... some way to get me back and forth from your base of operations to my home. Because you now owe me one, brothers. I did my bit, and I want my information in exchange. And I think you might well realize that I have more ability than you originally estimated. Ability that you may wish to call upon again, am I right?"

The twins glanced at each other and nodded in unison. With great solemnity, George opined, "You have earned our respect as a fellow perpetrator of mischief, Mister Black."

"I agree," Fred chimed in. "We need to work out some sort of transportation for you."

With saccarine mock sympathy, George added, "It must be horrible to be pre-apparational."

"Such an inconvenience."

"And speaking of inconvenience..."

"The location of your residence remains a secret to us."

"Which, I suppose, is on purpose."

"But it makes it very difficult for either of us to apparate there."

"What about Beauxbatons?"

"Would you mind if we picked you up and dropped you off at school?"

The twins, being who they were, could not help but add a taunting tone to their suggestions, but despite that, Draco could see the practicality of them right away. "Beauxbatons will be fine," he answered tersely. "Do you know how to get here?"

"Only by the conventional means," Fred admitted.

"We'll have to go, and memorize a place or two into which we can apparate."

"Then we'll be able to get you back and forth with ease."

"We should be able to get there and back by tomorrow."

"Can you give us a shout at this time tomorrow?"

Draco scowled, but could think of no remedy for having to wait another day. It was frustrating, but there was nothing to be done. "Yes. I will use one of the floos here. I should be able to step through, so long as you will be able to bring me back. I must go." He broke the connection.

"Scarlet Pimpernel?" Fred asked his twin.

"So mysterious... 'I must go,' and the sudden silence," George snickered.

"It doesn't matter. He could pretend to be be The Man in the Iron Mask, and it wouldn't change the fact that he did it. He belled the cat."

"Bugged the Dark Lord," George corrected primly.

"Whatever. Dumbledore has never done that."

"And Fudge never believed there was a Dark Lord to bug."

"Feel like going to France?"

"We'd better. We owe it to the little bastard."

-

Despite all of his worries and apprehension, Neville Longbottom was having a tremendous first day as the Herbology Professor at Hogwarts. There were many reasons for this, but one of the simplest and most effective was the way Professor McGonagall had helped him arrange for his classes. The youngest students appeared earliest in the day, and the classes became progressively more advanced as the day progressed.

Neville delighted in the impression he made on the first years. Most of the students seemed to feel particularly privileged to begin their day being instructed by a young man, rather than some stuffy old professor. Neville put particular emphasis on his instruction that any of the students could ask questions at any time during class, and that he was always available to help anyone who needed assistance. He insisted they call him "Mister Longbottom," rather than "Professor," and by the time he had worked his way through most of the day, he felt he had gone a long way toward establishing a rapport with his students. And though it was only his first day, he found that he liked teaching - liked being able to show others what he found so fascinating about Herbology.

He had just finished teaching his penultimate class of the day, a double fifth-year of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and his confidence was soaring. Most of the students in that class had heard of him the previous year - Professor Sprout had spoken very highly of her star pupil - and few of them were surprised to learn that the amazing Herbologist Neville Longbottom was involved in teaching their class. Many were sad to hear of the departure of Professor Sprout, but Neville allowed them little time to dwell on that during the busy class time he had planned for them.

His last class of the day, he knew, would be the greatest challenge. It was a double consisting of Gryffindors and Slytherins... all sixth years. His classmates for the previous five years might well take exception to receiving instruction from him, his House mates would likely expect some kind of preferential treatment, and many of his greatest rivals and the people at school he least liked - most of whom were Slytherins - would doubtless attempt to sabotage his efforts. He determined that he would keep his successes from the earlier part of the day firmly in mind and not let anyone shake him. He realized what a challenge that was going to be the moment he saw his students approaching, and felt his stomach lurch.

The Gryffindors entered the greenhouse first. Many of them swaggered as though leaving a quiddich match in which their team had been victorious. Neville recognized the look - those people were searching for House points and easy grades. Not all of the Gryffindors were behaving so obviously, but there were enough of them that were that Neville began to fear for the coming conflicts throughout the term. The Slytherins entered after the bulk of the Gryffindors were already inside. They were sullen and most of them looked angry. Where the Gryffindors had swaggered, the Slytherins stalked, glowering at their new teacher. Neville waited for the entire class to gather around the table on which he had set out some plants to use as examples. No one spoke during that entire time. Neville recognized the tension, the House rivalry, and he felt his old enemy, debilitating nervousness, begin to rise. If anyone had said or done anything... anything at all... Neville would likely have been lost. He would have failed to take control of the class, failed to give the impression that he was competent enough to do the job, and there would have been no way he could have taught this bunch anything for the remainder of the term, at least.

But if anyone had really wished him ill, they missed their chance. No one said or did anything except crowd around the table and either smirk or glower, depending on their House affiliation. And Neville had the time to realize that in this particular instance, he was in charge. He didn't have to sit submissively and take abuse, nor did he have to dish abuse out in order to be an effective teacher. He remembered his earlier classes, and he suddenly found the entire House Cup competition completely ridiculous and counterproductive. He was not going to be made a fool of for the sake of some idiotic, divisive game. The House system may well have been started for perfectly good reasons. But now, all it was good for was making students who shared a school, a culture and a grand heritage act as though they were one another's enemies. There would be none of that in his class, Neville decided. And with that, he called the class to order.

"Hello," he began with a friendly smile. "Today..."

"You're not a real teacher," shouted a voice from the back of the crowd.

"Quite right," Neville countered enthusiastically, smile still in place. "However, this is a real class and you can learn quite a bit of real Herbology if you pay attention. In fact, to make sure that you don't confuse me with a tenured professor, I would like you all to call me "Mister Longbottom," rather than "Professor..."

"And why should I call you "Mister" anything, Neville?" Pansy Parkinson sneered from the front row. "You're a student like the rest of us, and Hogwarts owes us an explanation, an apology... and a refund!"

Neville realized that he couldn't keep smiling in the face of such a snotty attack, and he allowed his face to become more serious... but he remained calm. He would not stoop to holding a shouting match with students on his first day of teaching. "You may drop the class if you wish, Miss Parkinson," he told her earnestly, slightly emphasizing the 'Miss' so as to make the point that he, at least, would be using formal address in this class. "But if you want to learn some Herbology, this is the best place you could be. I have a very challenging lesson plan for your class during this term and..."

"You're not listening, Tubby," Gregory Goyle called out. "You have no business planning any lesson plan for us... you're a sixth year just like the rest of us."

"Shut your bloody mouth, Goyle," one of the Gryffindors cried.

Neville's voice was hard as steel as he spoke over the commotion that broke out at that comment. "I will thank you to use speech which is acceptable in public here in my class," he demanded, causing the entire room to stare at him in silence. "That means no crass insults as well as no obscenities. I can and will deduct House points for infractions." Inwardly, he raged at having ruined his resolve to avoid participating in the House Cup system. Outwardly, though, his face only showed his determination to take control of his class. "Now, anyone who wishes to drop this class may leave now - without further disruption. Those who do not leave will be expected to participate in class - which has already begun. We have a lot to do and we're wasting time. The first example I have for you is..."

"You think you can throw me out of a class I had to pass OWLS to get into, you're stupider than you look." Vincent Crabbe pushed his way to the front of the class and glared at Neville, fists clenched at his sides. "You're a sixth-year Hogwarts student. Just like me." Neville noticed that Goyle and several of the other Slytherins were laughing, and a few were rolling their eyes, but Neville didn't believe that the derision was directed at him. As he watched in wonder, he got the idea that the others were laughing at Vincent. And with that realization, he saw a way to make the situation work to his advantage.

"Wrong again, Vince," Neville said casually, and as Crabbe's eyes widened in shock and anger... but before the boy could make any reply... Neville added, "I am a sixth year. But I am not like you."

As Crabbe stood, trying to figure out whether Neville had just insulted himself, the young teacher removed the pots that had been displayed on the table. He replaced them with two large pots, each holding a very small seedling, and a pair of large, full watering cans. "I'll give you a chance to prove me wrong right now, Mister Crabbe," Neville gestured dramatically to the pair of pots. "Choose one."

"For what?" Vincent said, baffled.

"To prove that I'm not cheating!" Neville announced, carnival barker style. "Take your pick, make sure that I haven't set myself up with the superior plant. You do know how to tell which is a superior plant, don't you? I mean, since you're just like me."

"Oh. Oh, yeah. Yeah, I can do that... uh... let's see." He cast surreptitious glances all around him, but none of his House mates offered any help. "All right... that one," he said, pointing at one of the pots with what he hoped was confidence.

"Very well," Neville said, pushing Crabbe's choice across the table toward him. "Now, all we're going to do is accelerate these plants' growth. We'll use the simple spells you learned in third year, remember?" Crabbe nodded uncertainly. "The primary motivator will be the same spell we had to use at mid-term in fourth year and to make our final projects develop to maturity in fifth year. Does everyone remember that spell?" There was a dull murmur of 'Uh-huh's around the table. "Does anyone remember the alternate fast-growth spell, accelerimus?" A few hands went up. "What about the root-lengthener?" Two Gryffindor girls held up their hands. Neville looked around the group in shock. "I'm surprised any of you even made it into this class. Anyway. The plants we have here are common Diamondbarks. You remember the Diamondbark from last year, right?" There was another dull chorus of 'Mm-Hmm's. Vincent was scowling at the seedlings in disgust.

"I remember they're bloody sharp," he snapped.

"Language, Mister Crabbe. Last warning," Neville countered sternly.

"Well they are!" Vincent cried. "Try picking one up when its got all those edgy bits all over it. Your hands might well be hamburger if you tried to carry one. And God forbid you'd have to pull one out roots and all."

"That's why we learn to wear gloves when dealing with certain plants," Neville explained patiently. "Diamondbark is one of the prime examples of that. Can anyone tell me why Diamondbark is so sharp?" There was a general shuffling and casting down of eyes throughout the room. One boy dared to meet Neville's eyes. Neville gave him a chance to answer.

"Salt?" The boy said hesitantly.

"That's part of it," Neville nodded. "The Diamondbark pulls minerals out of the soil that many plants would find poisonous. It excretes crystals of these minerals on its surface. The plant is very useful in certain cases of very poor soil, like land that has been reclaimed from the sea, or fields that have been purposely salted to prevent crops from growing. As you know, Mister Crabbe - since you did take… and pass… Herbology last term - the Diamondbark has certain qualities that must be kept in mind when using spells upon it. Oh, but you are aware of all of those things. You're a sixth year... just like me, right? Are you ready, Mister Crabbe?"

Vince looked back to the class for support, but the Gryffindors were all staring stonily at him, and his own House mates were beginning to chant. "Do it… Do it… Doo it... Doo it... Dooo it... Dooo it..."

Neville rapped his knuckles hard on the table. "Don't distract him, now. Let Mister Crabbe have all the concentration he can bring to bear. Begin!"

Despairingly, Vince waved his wand at the seedling before him and began to recite the only growth spell he could remember. He was pretty sure it wasn't the fast-growth spell, and he couldn't ever remember being shown the 'accelerimus' or whatever it was. Still, his own magic did seem to be having an effect. He thought he saw the lower leaves of his seedling widening, and he was almost certain that the plant was taller. He glanced over at Neville's seedling, only to see that it hadn't changed in the least. He was winning! He looked up to meet Neville's eyes. And saw that Neville wasn't casting any spells at all.

"I think that's enough of a head start, don't you, Mister Crabbe? Would everyone else please step back?"

Possibly remembering the disasters that had befallen Neville in other classes, especially Potions, the rest of the class did step back, quickly and as far as they could. Neville took a deep breath, let half of it out, hefted his watering can into position and began to allow a trickle of water to spill into his plant's pot. His other hand pointed his wand at his seedling as Neville began to murmur a spell.

The rest of the class blinked as light reflected into their eyes from the crystals suddenly sprouting all over Neville's seedling. The top of the plant had risen higher than the teacher's head when the rumbling began. Suddenly, a thick root burst from the bottom of Neville's seedling's pot and rapidly extended toward the ground. Boring through a crack in the flooring, it forced its way into the earth beneath the greenhouse and began sending nutrients up to the plant above. Its pot burst as the plant grew too large to be contained in even such a capacitous planter, but rather than the spray of soil the students had expected, there were only falling shards of pottery - the plant had absorbed all of the organic and mineral content of the soil, literally eating the dirt in which it had grown. Vincent stopped trying to cast any spells and gaped at the instant giant that had appeared before him. Neville had not stopped casting magic, sending subtle signals through his wand and into the plant before him from the moment it had begun to respond to his first spell. Many of those signals were expressed in the next moment, when branches began to thrust outward from the trunk of the Diamondbark. The rest of the students were very glad Neville had told them to step back, since crystal-covered branches now occupied the space in which many of them had been standing. Two particularly thick branches sprouted to either side of Vince, and extended themselves past him, twining around one another once they had grown far enough to make a kind of snare. Vincent felt the pressure begin to build as the branches grew thicker, squeezing him between them.

"You've killed me!" Vincent yelled. "These damned crystals will cut me to ribbons!"

Neville murmured a final word, and the explosive growth of the Diamondbark slowed, then stopped altogether. Neville shook his head sadly. "Not on those branches, Mister Crabbe. If you would care to look before you scream, you will see that there are no crystals on the branches that are currently holding you. Oh, and since you ignored my warning, please note that one point will be deducted from Slytherin for the use of foul language in class."

Several of the Gryffindors laughed. Two boys slapped each other's palms.

"Enough of that," Neville commanded with a scowl. "There will be one point taken from Gryffindor as well, for bad sportsmanship. This is a class. I expect you all to learn, and I will be testing your knowledge. Now, can anyone tell me how we might get rid of this plant?" A number of hands went up, Slytherins as well as Gryffindors.

"Without killing Mister Crabbe in the process." The hands went back down.

"Very well, our first lesson will concern disposing of unwanted overgrowth. And we will still have to cover the material I had intended to present today, so we will begin the term nearly a day behind. We will be doing extra homework to make up for the lost time." Groans broke out throughout the room, but to Neville, that was a good sign. It meant that those people who were complaining about extra homework were no longer planning to drop the class in protest against his teaching. "The first spell is a little tricky..."

When class was over and the students had left, Neville looked at the hole in the greenhouse floor. That would have to be repaired immediately. Such an opening was the very kind of thing that a creeping creeping charlie would take advantage of. But before he got out the tools, Neville sat and allowed himself to go limp and tremble all over for several minutes. It had been tough, but he had gotten through his first day.

-

About the same time that Neville was welcoming his sixth year students into the greenhouses, a group of younger Gryffindors were making their way down to the dungeons, wondering what their new Potions professor would be like.

Colin Creevey was the first of one group descending the stairs. When he saw the classful of Hufflepuffs climbing toward him, leaving the Potions classrooms, he was shocked at the looks on their faces. He stopped walking so quickly that several of his classmates bumped into him from behind. As the tangle of colliding students blocked the stairway, there were a number of grumbled complaints and growled imprecations directed at Colin, the loudest of which was, 'You're a menace, Creevey,' offered up by a large boy who had just missed making the quiddich team as a beater that year. But all of the complainers fell silent as they caught sight of the Hufflepuffs on the stairs.

"What is it?" "What's she like?" and "What did you do?" were among the questions the curious Gryffindors flung at the departing Hufflepuffs. Most of the previous class simply shook their heads. One boy paused long enough to reply, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Go on, see for yourself," before continuing to climb, wearing a very strange expression.

Colin walked to the classroom door and stopped in his tracks before he entered, convinced that he was in the wrong place. Those following him anticipated his sudden halt, so instead of plowing directly into his back, several aimed stiff punches into his shoulders, and one - the almost-beater - gave him a powerful shove, slamming an open palm directly between Colin's shoulderblades. But once the angry Gryffindors had caught sight of what lay beyond the classroom door, their abuses stopped as quickly as did their forward progress. The assembled children gawked, they stared, they tried to think of something to say. Nothing came to mind.

The classroom had been rearranged. The students entered near the back row of desks. The Professor stood next to a lectern which had been placed adjacent to a large desk near the far side of the room. The workbenches and cauldron heaters were all off to the far right. But while the new arrangement of desks and workbenches may have been slightly unexpected, that was not what held the class motionless near the entrance.

The entire atmosphere of the potions class had been transformed.

The ceilings in that classroom had always been very high, but no one had ever spent much time looking at them. For all the years that these students had attended Hogwarts, the potions class ceilings had been lost to view in the shadowy gloom that seemed to pervade the room - which had seemed appropriate, given that the potions class was held in a dungeon.

Now the ceilings - and the entire height of the walls - were quite clearly visible. Along the left side of the class, the top half of the wall held a series of wide windows, which let in so much light that dust motes could be seen dancing in the beams, and glare was - for perhaps the first time ever - an impediment to taking notes in potions class. There was also a distinct whiff of fresh air within the classroom, and a slight but unmistakable feeling of motion in the air - a breeze was coursing through the room.

The Professor waved to the students. "Come on in, Dears. Everyone take your seats. There's no need to audit the class from out in the hall, there's plenty of room for everyone."

Borne forward by the pressure of the crowd, and gaping at the details that had been added to the classroom since the last time he had seen it, Colin walked all the way to the front row and sat almost immediately in front of the teacher. He still hadn't looked at her by the time she had called the class to order. He was too busy cataloging the odd additions to what had been the most dour place on the entire Hogwarts campus. There were vases holding fresh flowers, with crocheted doilies lying beneath them. There was a comfortably padded chair sitting behind the Professor's desk. And there was a poster on the wall, its figures barely animated at all, featuring a triumphant looking girl holding aloft a clear bottle containing a brilliant green liquid, the sparkling of which constituted the greatest motion in the entire composition. Behind the girl was a smiling woman, not unlike the new Potions Professor. The caption read, "You CAN Do It!" in broad, friendly, orange letters.

Colin was suddenly aware that the Professor was addressing him directly. "...Seating chart," she told him enthusiastically. "I intend to know all of your names by the end of the week. But I am new here, and so, I'll need all the help I can get. A seating chart is the fastest way for me to learn who you are. Let's begin with you, young man."

Professor Routhe was not speaking a foreign language, and the concept of a seating chart was hardly new to kids who had spent the majority of their lives in school. Colin was perfectly aware that all he was required to do was state his name, and possibly help by offering correct spelling, then sit quietly while each other student did the same. He couldn't do it. Waving his hand at the windows on the high walls, he stammered, "What... How?"

To the students' amazement, Professor Routhe did not scold Colin. She did not skewer him with sarcasm or make fun of his weak, incomplete questions. Instead, she smiled and addressed the entire class. "You must be wondering about our new windows. I'm sure we can all figure this out. Where have you seen windows like these before?" The class was silent. "Very clever," Professor Routhe praised. "You are listening to my questions very carefully. That will help you all through this class, especially with examinations. Let me rephrase: Where have you seen an effect such as is presented by those windows?"

A boy near the back row raised his hand. At a nod from the Professor, he answered, his voice cracking with the nervousness of being the first to speak up. "The Great Hall?"

"Very good," Professor Routhe beamed. "The ceiling of the Great Hall is just like the patches of wall behind the window frames. I added the framing to give the effect a more comfortable appearance. But what you are seeing is the sky as it is outside right now. Later in the year, when light begins to fail earlier in the day, I may alter the charm to have our windows represent the sky as it would have been several hours before your class begins, thereby giving us plenty of illumination. Now, as we were about to start on our seating chart..." She turned back to Colin.

Still amazed at the classroom's transformation, Colin still did not offer his name, but blurted another question instead. "But... the air... there's a breeze. How...?"

Professor Routhe still did not scold him, but her expression became much more stern. "That, young man, is magic a bit more advanced than the simple windows. We may have time to investigate it by term's end... if we can get started with the material we have to cover. So: Your name, please?"

A dictaquill lifted itself above a sheet of parchment on the Professor's desk, and as Colin spoke his name, the tip moved smoothly. Professor Routhe did not question spelling nor pronunciation, but moved on to the next student immediately. Within minutes, the seating chart was complete and the dictaquill lay itself quietly on the desk.

"I have noticed," Professor Routhe began, and the entire classroom rustled with the sound of students settling in to listen to their first Potions lecture of the year. The rustling repeated itself, only louder and sharper, almost immediately as each student sat bolt upright in shock at hearing what their new Professor said next. "... that every class I have seen today is different. Each class has held students of different ages, who have been sorted into different Houses, and who have different interests. As you may imagine, I have a number of things I intend to teach you this term. But it would be helpful for me... and for the development of our relationship... to know what it is you expect to gain from your Potions education. Please tell me: What do you want to learn from me during this term in our Potions class?"

The students gawked, gaped and searched for words again. To hear such a question - here, in Potions class - was as strange and shocking as seeing windows in the dungeon. Even more so in many ways, because as the children thought about it, it wasn't just Snape who would be unlikely to ask them for their expectations of a class... it was the entire Hogwarts faculty. Who could imagine dusty old Professor Binns asking anything of a student? Or McGonagall? Even the comparatively lighthearted Professor Flitwick had a lesson plan cast in iron or carved in stone somewhere, and would no more deviate from it than he would teach an illegal charm or unforgivable curse. Students with older siblings... and even parents... who had gone through the Flitwick course years ago had compared their own experiences and had satisfied themselves thoroughly that the Charms professor was invariable in his presentation. Hogwarts had always been like that. Most of the students had the impression that the school had been the same when Dumbledore had been a student. And here was a professor - a potions professor - asking them what they expected to gain from their class. Apart from an involuntary 'Huh?' forced from the gathered student body, the class was struck speechless.

Professor Routhe allowed them to remain frozen in silence for a long moment, then she laughed gently, a bright, tinkling sound of pleasant mirth. "Oh, come on, now, Dears," she chided gently. "You know I'm not going to teach you to make assassination poisons... although many of the ingredients we will be working with are somewhat dangerous and need to be handled with care. You know I'm not going to teach you..." She recalled her interview with Dumbledore and laughed again. "I won't teach you to make anything illegal, like veritaserum. And you should know that the single most requested potion of all - the Love Potion - is, for the most part, a fable. And those brews that have any potency at all create such deleterious effects on both the victim and the perpetrator - the taker and the maker, that is - that they are generally considered to be poisons, and are rightly banned in most civilized countries. So don't think I'm taking orders up here. I simply want to know what you had in mind when you signed up for potions class." She walked behind her desk and glanced at the chart. "Mister... Creevey? How about you?"

Feeling ridiculous with the eyes of the entire class on him, Colin stammered out, "I... uh... well, I thought that... uh... I would learn... you know... to make... potions." Colin shut his eyes and hung his head as the entire class erupted into laughter.

"What is so funny about that?"

The class' laughter subsided immediately. The Professor was showing a much sterner expression. Perhaps this was the beginning of the 'real' class... seating chart time and idle question period finally being over. Professor Routhe scanned the room and asked of everyone in general, "Did any of you take this class NOT expecting to learn how to make potions?"

There was a general uncomfortable shifting around the room, but one boy actually raised his hand. With a glance at the chart, Professor Routhe asked, "Are you telling me, Mister... Thompson... that you signed up for Potions without the expectation of learning how to make any of them?"

"My parents made me sign up, Professor. I'm awful at Potions. I did poorly last year... I was really miserable for most of the class. I wanted to take something else, but my Mom... she said I had to pass Potions if I was going to be a proper wizard. So I signed up."

"And you were accepted," Professor Routhe said with an emphatic nod.

"What?"

"You were accepted. This is not a first-year class, I am sure you are aware."

The Thompson boy was baffled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Professor Routhe said seriously, pinning the boy with a direct stare, "That after first year, professors must accept - or reject - each student's application for further classes based on that student's "Four P's." That is, Past Performance and Perceived Potential. In fact, any professor can deem any student unacceptable for any class that professor is required to teach. You were accepted into this class - not merely despite - but because of your efforts of last term. Ergo, you were not nearly as hopeless in Potions as you seem to feel you were."

There was a buzz throughout the classroom. Another class may have taken this news differently, but these were Gryffindors, and they were sitting in a potions class. It had to be spoken sooner or later, and very quickly, in the midst of the buzz, it was: "You mean that Professor Snape could have barred Neville Longbottom from Potions class - at any time?"

Professor Routhe was a little confused. Wasn't Longbottom teaching Herbology now? She did know her academic policy, however. At least, she knew the way it was followed in most schools throughout the world. She had to presume that Hogwarts would follow the same general rules. "After first year, Professor Snape - as Hogwarts' sole Potions professor - could have ended anyone's Potions career with a single bit of parchment. Of course, in the case that anyone thought a professor was being unfair, there could be an appeal to the Headmaster, but in most cases..."

The group shout drawn by the sheer surprise of this news from the entire class drowned out the rest of her statement: "Why?"

Professor Routhe scanned the faces that stared at her with apparently genuine shock. This was not simply a case of adolescent hijinks - these children were truly baffled at Professor Snape's tolerance of a student - surprisingly, one who was apparently quite gifted in areas other than Potions. "I presume you are asking why your Professor Snape would allow a particular student to continue in his programme despite what many of you would consider shortcomings in that student. Well. To that I can only say that the Professor must have seen something in that student - some competence, some talent, some potential - of which the rest of you remain unaware. And you must keep in mind that your Professor Snape is not only a brilliant and masterful potions maker - many of his brews have been used by the Ministry, recognized as the best of their kind, for example - but he is also a teacher with a widespread reputation for dedication, as well as for excellence. I believe that he simply felt too responsible to this school to bar a student from a class if he felt there was any hope for that student to improve. Professor Snape is an exemplary educator."

"Don't you mean... 'was,' Professor?" asked a girl in the second row.

Professor Routhe smiled conspiratorially at her class and said, "No, I don't think so. When last seen, the Professor was exploring the jungles of South America, searching for rare ingredients to use in his brews. The search for the finest potion ingredients is difficult, and it can be dangerous. But Professor Snape has delved into the wilderness in such searches many times previously, and I believe that he will yet be found emerging from the bush triumphantly bearing the very finest source materials from which he will brew more of his exemplary potions."

The members of the class weren't sure if this was good news or not. To most of them, Snape had always been a Slytherin chauvinist; a Gryffindor-hating, unfair, sarcastic, sadistic tormentor. The revelation that he had also allowed Neville Longbottom to continue taking Potions classes when he could have easily rid himself of the boy had upset their notions of the man, however. And what was even more difficult to picture, the new Professor seemed to think that Snape was some kind of adventure hero! Before the confusion had left the students' faces, Professor Routhe changed the subject in order to get on with the class. This introduction had already taken too much time.

"We will return to the matter of what you expect from this class. I suggest that each of you think about the subject before we meet again. I have already outlined a number of things that I will not be teaching you. Now, let's review some of the things that I will be covering in class. Potions is, perhaps more than any other discipline in the Hogwarts curriculum, a practical, useful body of knowledge. I fully expect that you will brew any number of the potions you learn to make this term at home. You might begin to brew some of them as soon as next summer, during between-term break. But once you have graduated from Hogwarts, these brews will doubtless become a regular, valuable part of your magical repertoire."

Professor Routhe pursed her lips as she saw the entire class drop its jaws in collective shock. This was becoming annoying! What had Professor Snape been teaching these children if the simple statement that they might actually use their potions knowledge could surprise them so thoroughly? She cleared her throat and continued, trying to ignore the wide eyes and round mouths that stared at her from throughout the room.

"Many of the potions we will be covering are referred to as 'Medicine Chest' brews. They are simple, and most are rather easy to make - once you know how. But their utility is quite disproportional to the effort involved in creating them. Potions to combat stomach upset, headache and sleeplessness are some of the simplest brews known. However, I have learned that your class has not covered any of them. We will be dealing with these brews first this year."

The new Professor plowed on, giving her students an overview of the coming term. This first day of teaching had been quite baffling. When Madame Routhe had applied to Hogwarts for the Potions Professorship, she had been mostly concerned with how difficult it would be to follow in the footsteps of the prestigious Professor Snape. She had been certain that the students would have protested at the outrage of anyone daring to take the great man's place, and that they would have been boiling over with questions about him - especially about when he could be expected to return. Instead, she had been peppered with questions about the window illusions and had been met with frank disbelief when she had announced that her Potions classes would cover simple, basic, commonly-used potions. She wondered if, perhaps, Severus Snape could have been unpopular as a teacher. But she dismissed the idea immediately. It was hardly likely that such a great man would have been an unpopular professor. What was much more reasonable was that she was facing a gathering of young people and observing the resilience of youth first-hand in quite some time. It was truly amazing - and inspiring - to see how quickly a group of young people could adjust to a tragedy such as the loss of a teacher of Professor Snape's caliber. She reminded herself once again that she had been given quite a standard to meet by the now-missing Professor. She was quite glad to have met the students who would, ultimately, be the judges of whether she measured up or not. All in all, it had been a very interesting first day on the job.

-

It being the first day of the new term, no one at Hogwarts, student nor staff, had enjoyed such leisure during the morning hours as would have allowed their perusal of a newspaper. But once classes for the day had been held, many regular readers turned to the pages of their Daily Prophets. And at Hogwarts, one particular article was soon the focus of attention throughout the school, and quickly became the subject for many discussions.

The article in question was on the back pages of the front section. It was not so far back in the newspaper as Albus Dumbledore's interview had been placed only the previous day, but still far enough from the front that a casual flip through the pages might miss it. The article's accompanying photograph featured Minister Cornelius Fudge, apparently accepting a compliment with a smile and depreciating wave of one hand. He was dressed, as was his wont, in what appeared (to those with any experience at all in the muggle world) to be a bizzare adaptation of muggle-style formal wear, complete with bowler hat. The outfit's tailoring, which attempted to combine elements of several widely diverse eras of muggle fashion, gave the impression - not of a synthesis of those styles - but of the designer having had no real idea of what he was trying to create. That the colors were garish and disturbingly mismatched only made the ensemble more unattractive. All in all, most people thought the Minister would look better in formal robes than wearing the clothing in which he usually appeared.

Nonetheless, despite his odd mode of dress, the Minister had been quite successful over a number of years at holding the highest office in the British wizarding government. Thus, whenever Cornelius Fudge spoke, people tended to listen. And those who disagreed with the Minister usually kept their objections to themselves... or held a great deal of political power of their own.

The students at Hogwarts did not hold much political clout, except as the 'generation of leaders of the future' that their elders were always citing in political speeches. However, after reading that day's interview with Minister Fudge, those politically punchless people did not keep their opinions to themselves - and almost universally, those opinions were in direct opposition to the Minister's own.

Hermione Granger sat in one of the overstuffed chairs in the Gryffindor common room, her feet tucked under her, her newspaper open like a folding screen separating her from the rest of the room. In a single smooth motion, she closed the paper and let it fold over on itself, as she quietly fumed, "How dare he..." To her surprise, several students in the common room knew exactly what she was referring to, and several comments were offered up, such as: "Yeah, like he knows anything about running a school," and "What about where he said we're all in danger so long as we remain at Hogwarts?"

Had the editorial staff of the Daily Prophet been privvy to this scene of shared outrage, they would have been gratified. This was exactly the kind of emotional involvement their series was supposed to engender. The series had only had two interviews so far, but the Prophet reporters had already obtained more material from which to craft further articles, and the next step would be to ask Headmaster Dumbledore for his reaction to Fudge's comments. The escalation of rhetoric was nearly inevitable, so the building of tension and reader excitement would be nearly automatic. Within a few days, a good, old-fashioned front page shouting match between the leader of the British wizarding government and the Headmaster of Britain's most prestigious wizarding school would practically produce itself.

Of course, the statements made by the Minister were in direct response to those made by the Headmaster which had been published the previous day. Fudge had not remained in his position of power by ignoring threats, and he certainly never allowed a direct attack to go unchallenged. But while such verbal fencing was common in political life, arguments of this sort among the denizens of academe were always carried out with a great deal more subtlety and a great deal more understatement.

So the Minister's assertion that "the man can barely keep his school staffed," actually gained Dumbledore a great deal of sympathy among those whose jobs included keeping a school filled with enough teachers to meet student needs. And the Minister's rant about Dumbledore hiring a Death Eater engendered support for the Headmaster among most Human Resource workers throughout wizarding Britain. Most of those who had attended Hogwarts, or who had children enrolled at Hogwarts, or both, tended to feel a loyalty to their school. And Fudge's criticism of Dumbledore seemed to most of those people to be an attack on the school, and by extension, on its graduates. By and large, they were not pleased.

By the time Hermione Granger had flung down her paper in disgust, the Minister's advisors had already seen the results of polls that told them the Minister's tone had been counterproductive. They immediately began working on writing the responses Fudge would give during the next round of questioning by reporters. They knew one thing for certain: if they were aware of the most recent swings of public opinion, then so was Albus Dumbledore. And once the Headmaster realized how sharply public support had swung away from the Minister regarding this particular confrontation, Dumbledore would certainly be making further public statements critical of Fudge. There was damage to control, but the Minister's staff had always been good at such assignments. They would work just as hard to contain any harm that might come from this situation, as well.

-

One place in which the Daily Prophet was far from anyone's mind was Beauxbatons Academe. Draco Malfoy was already suffering a nagging headache from having to speak a foreign language all day for the second day in a row, but he had found one class in which he was already a standout pupil: Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Defense was taught rather differently at Beauxbatons than it was at Hogwarts. For one thing, there had been one Defense teacher holding the job for an uninterrupted twelve years. As a result, Defense was approached at Beauxbatons neither as a theoretical all-lecture class, as it had been under Dolores Umbridge at Hogwarts, nor as an entertaining introduction to various monsters and their habits, as Remus Lupin had taught it, nor as a desperate exercise in paranoia, as it had been under Alastor Moody. Rather, the Beauxbatons philosophy of Defense, as expounded by its Professor, Artois Riposte, concerned itself primarily with dueling. And Draco Malfoy was better at dueling than most of the rest of the students at the Academe.

But despite his success during the first two meetings of his Defense class, Draco felt that something important was missing from the lessons... from the atmosphere of the entire class, and the attitude of its instructor. It was puzzling more than worrying, but Draco felt that he had established enough of a rapport with Professor Riposte to be able to wait until all the other students had left at the end of class and ask some questions privately.

The Professor smiled as he saw Draco approaching alone. in an attempt at relieving some of the linguistic pressure on the boy, Riposte switched to speaking English... although it was an English so heavily accented, Draco wished the Professor had continued in French. "Ah, Mister Black, the English boy! How well you performed on the swift-draw competition. You have a keen sense of timing as well, no? What can I tell for you this day?"

Draco gave the Professor his most winning smile and adopted his 'humble and uncertain' posture. If he was going to learn anything from Riposte, arrogance could not be allowed to color his expression. "I'm not sure, Professor. Beauxbatons is just so different from my previous school. At Hogwarts, there was a lot more... security."

"You mean... wards, protective spells?" Professor Riposte asked with a shrug.

"Those... and a huge no-apparition zone throughout the castle and around the grounds. And there's not a single working floo on the entire campus. I understand that the staff doesn't want strangers barging in, but if you're at Hogwarts, you can't get in touch with anyone except through owl post."

"I believe what you see is simply a matter of style," Professor Riposte said dismissively. "There, you are supposed to be... ah... hole-up for study. Not out of school being distracted. Here, we feel that the cities, the social life, the entertainments... even the muggle world... are all important parts of a well-rounded education. You should know what's out there to appreciate what you learn in here, eh?"

Draco put on his 'innocent and uncomfortably embarrassed' face. The next exchange would tell him what he wanted to know. "Well... the thing is... before I left England, the news was that Voldemort was active once again. And with Voldemort planning... who knows what: attacks, plagues, curses, whatever... I thought that maybe Beauxbatons would be adopting further security measures. And maybe Defense would cover more combat spells."

Professor Riposte scowled, looked blank, thought a moment, then suddenly brightened. "Oh, of course. Wholledehmorr. The Butcher of Hogsmeade. The French sent some fighters to aid in your struggle against him, did you know?"

It was Draco's turn to offer a blank stare. "Uh... surely... the struggle against Voldemort was a global effort..."

Professor Riposte tilted his head to one side, considering. "Eh... there were certainly allies sent to aid the English from many European countries. And there were spies said to be operating for both sides throughout the continent. But so far as a truly global threat, I would not consider Wholledehmorr in the same class as several other dark wizards, each of which was active after the English conflict was resolved. M'rowae, from central Africa; Adéde, from the Gold Coast; Kin, from China... these were truly evil men, whose defeat required unprecedented global cooperation. In a way, the English struggle provided an example, a template for alliances that crossed traditional political borders. What was disappointing to me in each case was that the English themselves did not become involved. Then again, sometimes it has seemed that there is some higher power keeping the dark wizards from becoming too powerful. Two cases especially stand out in this respect: that of Salvatore Balneado, who rose to power in South America, only to be killed by muggle gangsters through a fluke involving mistaken identity, and Balneado himself being out alone in the deep forest; and Maluk Gependian, who became involved in muggle politics, and who was blown to pieces when his headquarters was bombed by disaffected former supporters. Who knows if anyone could have defeated them in a war? We were only fortunate that we never had to find out."

"But... with Voldemort active again... he was said to be dead. If he's back, he has most likely learned a lot from his last defeat." Draco was surprised to find himself arguing this at all. He had merely wanted to ask for some help in studying some combat spells. But Professor Riposte's attitude was a personal affront. Draco's own father sat in jail waiting to be condemned for his association with Voldemort. If his father had not been arrested, Draco himself would have been introduced to Voldemort's service some time this year. Draco's entire experience with school had been colored by the paranoid atmosphere engendered by the widespread fear of 'He Who Must Not Be Named.' And now this... glorified fencing coach... had the temerity to assert that The Dark Lord Voldemort was some kind of piker? 'Bah!' Draco thought furiously, straining to keep his anger off of his face. 'Voldemort had returned to corporeal form after being completely disembodied. Let's see Riposte do that!'

Meanwhile, the Beauxbatons Defense Professor was nodding sagely. In a calming voice, he reassured Draco, "Many dark wizards take advantage of circumstances to allow their foes to pronounce them dead. There are several advantages to this. The first is that - if you are considered to be dead - your foes will no longer pursue you. The second is that - once you return to active aggression against the established authorities - your friends will believe that you cannot be killed, and your enemies will be afraid that you will return each time they do kill you. If Wholledehmorr was 'said to be' dead, then no doubt it is the same old story. As far as learning... seriously evil wizards are among the best at learning spells... and usually among the worst at learning from their own mistakes. I doubt that it will be much more difficult to defeat The Butcher of Hogsmeade now than it was the first time. Do not fear, young Mister Black."

"It's not... I'm not afraid. I just want to do something. To help my home country."

"A duelist such as yourself will always be welcome in any struggle such as the one your own nation may face against her old foe. Practice, Mister Black. That is always the key."

Draco thanked the Professor for his time and left quickly. It was time to get back in touch with the Weasley Twins. A duelist may be important sometimes, in some isolated battle, but a single good spy could make the difference between victory and defeat for an entire war. And he had accomplished a respectable bit of espionage when he placed the Ear in Voldemort's throne room. It was time to find out what the rest of the Weasleys' plot consisted of.

-

Draco reached the floo with time to spare. He took a moment to catch his breath after hurrying across campus. He straightened his robe. He checked his hair. All the while, he looked for anyone in the surrounding area that might be taking an interest in what he was doing. He saw no one. He tossed a pinch of Floo Powder onto the embers at the bottom of the hearth and clearly spoke the name of the Weasleys' business in Diagon Alley.

Fred was monitoring the floo, waiting for Draco's call. He grinned when he saw the blonde boy's face materialize in the glow of the modest fire that burned constantly in the office hearth, making business calls quick and easy at any time. "Young Mister Black!" Fred enthused. "Top of the afternoon to you. Capital to see your face once again."

Draco scowled through the proscenium of the fireplace. "Why do you talk like that when I call?" he snapped. "You don't speak that way under any other circumstances of which I am aware. Is it a business thing? Do you answer your floo in character as a stuffy English shopkeeper?"

Fred laughed out loud. "Hardly, Draco. But you're French, now. I have to remind you of your roots in some fashion, don't I?"

Draco's temper flared just long enough for him to spit, "I'm as English as..." before he realized that Fred was having far too much fun goading him. He bit off the remainder of his reply and asked, "Have you learned an apparation point here?"

"Several," Fred bragged. "Since we were in the country anyway, George and I decided to visit Paris... well, we apparated there first, since the Parisian points were the ones we knew..."

"Can you get me back here?" Draco growled.

Fred sniffed, turning his nose up, acting much more offended at having his story cut short than could possibly have been the case. "Oh, yes. Come on through, we'll get you back home in a half an hour or less." Fred indicated a safe path through the clutter of boxes and books that constantly piled up in the Weasleys' office despite frequent straightenings, less frequent cleanings, and the Herculean efforts toward organization of the office mess put forth on a regular basis by Charlotte. With a dubious glance at the narrow aisle remaining between the piles of parchments and products-in-progress, Draco stepped into the fireplace at Beauxbatons and through the one in the Weasleys' office. In an instant, he had taken a single step from France all the way to England. He glared at Fred and demanded, "You do have a point to which to apparate at Beauxbatons?"

Fred pressed his lips together with a hurt look. "I would have told you all about it, but..."

"Fine," Draco interrupted, and turned to break the floo connection to his new school. He turned immediately back to face Fred and with a triumphant smile, gloated, "Now, it's my turn. First, what have you gotten from the Ear?"

Fred looked sheepish. Draco was surprised at how out of place the expression looked on the redhead's face. With a start, Draco realized that, in his own way, the lifelong joker Fred was as arrogant as any Death Eater. Neither of the Weasley twins admitted to faults, failings or shortcomings very easily. But it was very obvious an apology of some sort was on the way now.

"A whole bunch of nothing, really," Fred admitted. "We have a simple recording mirror charmed to remember anything louder than a pin drop, and repeat it on command. We're getting sound... mostly vague thumps from other rooms. And then there's..." Fred squinted at Draco, trying to remember everything the boy had said about his visit to the Dark Lord's throne room. "You saw him, right? When you were there. He spoke to you, didn't he?" Draco replied with a single curt nod. "Well, then... Is he an invalid? I mean, does he ride a wheel chair, or... or get carried around or something?"

Draco was puzzled by the question. "No. No, he strode into the room, stood there waving his arms about, even cast a spell. No, he's not... um... an invalid. Why?"

Fred looked frustrated and confused. He vainly tried to find words to express what he had heard. "Because he talks like one," he blurted. "'Peter, pick that up;' 'Pettigrew, hand me this;' 'Wormtail, wipe my arse;' I mean... it's like he can't do the simplest thing for himself."

Draco was impatient. Having seen the groveling Peter Pettigrew at the youth meeting in the Dark Lord's throneroom, he could imagine Voldemort ordering the toady about just to keep the sycophant from constantly asking what he could do to serve. "Yes, I get it. But once the doofus has picked the thing up and handed it over and wiped the Lord's arse... what do they talk about?"

Fred shrugged, looking miserable. "Mostly what an unrelieved cockup the toady is. I'm sorry, Draco. I mean... I'm really sorry. I thought we'd all be heroes using this thing. It looks like a good idea gone sour, though."

"Bullshite," Draco snapped. "We've already found out one big clue. The Death Eaters don't hold daily meetings. Nor weekly ones. In fact, no one gets in to see the boss very often at all, from the sound of it. So think about it. If he makes plans, he's making them by himself. He's sure not holding conferences. And he keeps his ideas so close to his chest, he doesn't even boast about them to his toad. I thought all budding world-dominators talked about their plans. Not this guy. So we're learning, even though we're not hearing much."

Despite himself, Fred Weasley was impressed. For as long as Fred had known him, Draco Malfoy had been a veritable poster child for underachievement. The boy had enjoyed a powerful family, tremendous wealth, a good deal of magical talent - and he had used all of that to make himself a whining pain in the arse. This Draco, who saw the intelligence value inherent in a lack of information, who dismissed the obvious noise of all the chattering at the toady and sought out the salient bits of useful knowledge that might be gleaned from listening between the lines... this was a new and definitely improved Malfoy model. Perhaps living through some hard times had awakened something strong and intelligent within the boy. Still, the office was hardly the place to be carrying on extended discussions about Voldemort. "Look, Draco, if we're going to be carrying on with this, we really should seek out someplace more private."

"Good thing," Malfoy retorted sarcastically. "I did want to get out of sight of Dumbledore's little 'Malfoy hunters.' If he's even still using them, I really don't know."

"Right. Hold on a bit..." Fred opened the office door and called out "George?"

"Not a good time," came the immediate reply. Draco saw Fred's shocked reaction and moved to where he could look through the doorway into the shop beyond. Though he had been ready to say any number of cruel things about jokers who ran a joke shop, even Draco was speechless as he saw the size of the crowd gathered around the shelves.

"What is it?" Draco asked in a kind of awe.

"I believe..." Fred murmured, as though daydreaming. Then, "No, it can't be... Wait. It is. My God, Draco, that's Dick Starkers. Those people... in our shop... That's the Fudgecicles. And their entire stage crew, from makeup man to prop boy!"

"There are a lot of them..." Draco said dubiously.

"There ARE a lot of them... and that crowd out there's the lot of them. Look! That's 'Wee' Willie Nelbert. He really is the prop boy!"

Draco was no longer looking into the shop, but staring at Fred with a kind of morbid fascination. "How do you know, Fred? I mean, that could be anybody..."

"How do I know?" Fred asked in disbelief. "I've seen the last dozen Fudgecicles' shows. I've watched these people, I've read the credits... I've seen Molly Fulton leaving the theatre. She's costumes," he added, still staring. "Oh, shit. Oh, Hell. Oh... Draco, I've got to..."

"No," Draco stated coldly. "It's my turn now."

"Draco, I... these people..."

"I bugged Voldemort's bloody throne. You owe me." Draco's pale eyes bored into Fred's.

"Right. Let me... let me tell George..."

Draco reached out and gripped Fred's arm. He wasn't about to let Weasley walk into the next room. He knew that if Fred got involved with this particular group of customers, not only would Draco miss out on learning what he had come here to find out, he would also lose his ride home. The two stood, staring at one another. They might have come to blows but for Charlotte. The counter person leaned through the partly open door and quietly reported, "George and I have them taken care of. They're fine. They're buying, and they're buying a lot. They'll be back, you'll see them next time. Take your guest and get out of here. And don't forget to take him home. Soon. You've already spent a lot of time in the office. Then get your arse back here and take care of any other customers that happen by, all right?" She turned a sarcastic smile Draco's way. "Hello."

Draco made a mock bow. "Good day."

Fred looked as though he were about to cry. "Our warehouse, then," he said with a sigh. A loud bang signalled their apparition.

They appeared outside the building and Fred hurried to the door. "Come on, I have to get back."

"Not before you tell me what the Hell is going on between you, Snape, Lupin and Potter," Draco snarled. "And I want to see your setup for listening to the Ear. There's no way your damn comedy troupe comes before your obligation to me."

Once they were inside the building, Fred calmed down considerably. "Right. Though I do wish George were here for the telling part. I wonder if you'll believe me."

"Make it easy on yourself: tell me the truth."

"Right. Well, basically..." Fred searched for a place to start. Finally, he thought of a previous conversation with Draco. "Do you remember when I asked you who the most powerful magic user in your class was? At the time, I insisted that Hermione Granger was the one. Remember?" Draco nodded. "I was wrong. I was 'way wrong. You were right. But I don't think you have any idea how right you were." Draco scowled and grunted impatiently. "Harry Potter is the most powerful wizard at your old school... he's the most powerful wizard in England... I think he may be the most powerful in the world. So, what Snape, Lupin, George and I have in mind is for Harry Potter to kill Voldemort, defeat Dumbledore, and take Fudge's place at the head of the government."

Draco stared at Fred for a long moment. He began to speak, then thought better of it several times. He took a deep breath, fixed Fred directly with his gaze, and very quietly, but with great intensity, said, "You... stupid... fuck. You want to lie to me? Make up something that respects my intelligence. Potter? All right, he would go after Voldemort. I can see that. Who knows? With the combined might of Snape and all of you others behind him, he might even win. He might kill the Dark Lord and live to tell the tale. But Dumbledore? Why bother? All he cares about is defeating Voldemort. If you do that for him, he'll be too busy kissing your feet to fight you. And for Merlin's sake, Fudge? What is Potter going to do, run against him in an election? Do you really think that a boy - even the Boy Who Lived - is going to get any votes when there's an experienced incumbent on the ballot running against him? You make no sense, Weasley."

"And you're missing the point, Draco," Fred countered heatedly. "Of course Dumbledore hates Voldemort. But do you think he doesn't have any ambition of his own? Hell, he's already the head of the only school for wizards and witches in Britain, he's a big wheel with the Wizengamut, and he's been going after Fudge in the newspapers like a politician on the campaign trail. You think the Ministership is far from his mind? I think he's fancied himself the leader of the Free World since the last war with Voldemort. And he's got a pretty good claim to the title, too. But he's a manipulative old meddler, far too used to getting his own way behind the scenes to risk letting him have any real political power to back up his schemes. And Fudge! Is he blind, is he stupid, or is he just a bloody traitor? Any way you look at him, he's a menace! Once Harry Potter presents the world with Voldemort's head on a stick, I don't think we'll have to wait for elections - he'll be the new Minister by general acclaim... especially if there's no Dumbledore around trying to take credit for the victory. So yes: Harry Potter will go up against Voldemort. And he will have the 'combined might' of Snape and all of the rest of us - including you, Malfoy. You've proven that you can do a damn sight of good for us, and you'd be stupid to turn down partnership with us... with me, and George, and Snape... and yes, with Lupin and Potter, too. Because we're not stopping with Voldemort. We're giving Dumbledore a big sendoff, and then taking Fudge out of government forever. And when the rest of the world sees what we've done... you know what? They're going to want in on it. They're going to make alliances, and ask advice, and arrange for favors, and pretty soon, Malfoy, Harry Potter The Boy Who Bloody Well Lived is going to - in effect, and for all practical purposes - rule the world."

Draco searched Fred's face, finding only earnest conviction there. It wasn't like looking at the grovelling Peter Pettigrew. It was more like looking at his own father's face, when Lucius would give one of his 'how the world should be' lectures. Whatever the percentage concentration of bullshite in Fred's monologue, Weasley himself believed it, that was certain. Draco paused, thought a bit and chose another tack. "Fred? Have you ever heard of M'rowae, or Adéde or Kin, from China... or Salvatore Balneado or Maluk Gependian?"

Fred gaped at Draco, growing paler as Malfoy recited his list of names. "Gods above, Malfoy! Is one Dark Lord not enough for you? You need a half-dozen of them?"

"You've heard of them," Draco accused. "Where?"

"Research," Fred said, shaking his head at the obviousness of the answer.

"Not school research?" Draco persisted.

Fred laughed. "Oh, Hell, no. Research for the company. For Halloween products, mostly. Look, muggles have had certain Halloween traditions that look like fun, so far as dressing up goes. They pick some world leaders that were particularly bloodthirsty, and they dress up like them. The Roman emperors are always popular, as well as Attila the Hun, and Genghis Khan. The Americans dress up as their own presidents. There was one guy with a long nose that's been a popular mask for a long time. So every year, George and I look up particularly nasty examples of dark wizards. It never did us much good, though. People around here... Hell, most people in Britain - our main customer base, you know - they don't know anything about the rest of the world's dark wizards. Which is a shame, really. The levels of power... the sheer numbers of spells the other dark wizards threw around were truly astounding. These guys were unbelievable."

"And yet," Draco said thoughtfully, "knowing all about how much power dark wizards can unleash, you're still willing to send Harry Potter up against Lord Voldemort."

Absolute conviction shone from Fred's face. "No question about it."

"Right..." Draco said absently. "Let's go see your Ear receiver."

-

Lucius Malfoy had not seen the Prophet that day any more than had his son. Not that Lucius had ever felt anything but contempt for the daily paper's sensationalistic interpretation of the wizarding world's news, but even if he had been an avid fan of the publication, he would not have spent any time reading it on that particular morning. The first item of business before the United Kingdom's High Court for Wizarding Affairs that morning was the People vs. Lucius Malfoy, and Lucius had met with his lawyers from dawn until they were all called to appear before the judges.

Lucius knew better than to make any comment of his own during the proceedings. He allowed his team of representatives to make his case for him, and whatever thoughts and feelings may have crossed his mind, he did not allow any of those to show in his face or posture. Instead, he sat regally, looking down his long, thin nose at all of the little people who were so concerned about his affairs.

By the end of the session, Lucius could barely contain his fury, and once the court was adjourned and the defendant was allowed to reconvene his legal team in the conference area supplied by the court for that purpose, he was exercising extreme restraint simply to avoid shouting. He would not allow himself to bellow at his barrister nor his solicitors, since he knew that - against the law, professional ethics and common decency - his every word was being monitored by his jailers and fed to the prosecutors. But he did need to satisfy himself regarding some questions, and so, as calmly as he possibly could - and giving as little away to the unseen listeners as possible - he addressed his representatives.

"What..." he forced himself to delete several explitives before continuing. "... are you doing in there?"

The barrister, who had represented Lucius' father, and had worked as a young man for Lucius' grandfather, replied equally calmly. "We are keeping you alive, sir."

Malfoy's face began to redden, and feeling the flush, he forced himself toward calm once again. "We are delayed again. We will not be returning to court tomorrow, nor, as I understand it, the next day either."

The old barrister sighed. "Quite right, sir. And the reason for this is that the prosecution has behaved abusively. Once again, today, they submitted evidence of which we had not been properly informed, as is required by law. The State, with such a weak case against you, are trying to throw things at us by surprise, and the usual reason for doing so is that the evidence thus submitted is tainted. Their witnesses may be untrustworthy, and their statements may even be false. Their physical evidence may not actually show what the State claims it to show. Solid evidence will not suffer if both sides are aware of its existence. Weak evidence is often brought in at the last minute, often accompanied by the claim that it was newly discovered and immediately hustled into court. Those claims are usually nonsense. The State is trying to overcome your genuine protestations of innocence, essentially by using cheap trickery. The only way an innocent man such as yourself can defend himself from such baseless attacks is to know what the State intends to present as evidence, and then prepare to show the court that such submissions do not prove that you have committed any crime. When the State presents surprise witnesses, when they introduce surprise exhibits, even when they offer pictures or graphs or descriptions that we have never before seen, then we have not had the opportunity to..."

Lucius waved the old man to silence. "Yes, yes, yes... rights of the defendant, on and on and on. I know the rationale. But the State has done this same thing over and over again in this trial. Can you not show the courts that, by their very behavior, the prosecution has shown its case to be non-existent? Can you not have the judge throw this whole set of charges out by showing how improperly the State has acted?"

"The judge... for some reason... as you saw today, in fact, is hesitant to dismiss any charges against you. He has... for some reason... even refrained from reprimanding, or even warning, the prosecutors. The best I could do today was to gain a delay in order to allow us all to review the exhibit the State wishes to introduce, and to obtain our own experts to testify regarding its meaning."

Staring darkly into the far distance, Lucius muttered, "This is taking forever."

Looking at his client sympathetically, the barrister replied, "It must seem so. Given the pace of the State's presentation, and the fact that our own side must be told, then allowing for the rebuttal period, the deliberation portion of these proceedings will not likely commence until Halloween, if that soon." 'And that will be that much longer for you to live,' he added to himself. 'This court has already decided. If I can't get a new trial for you when this one is lost, you'll be executed before Christmas.'

To the barrister's astonishment, Lucius Malfoy suddenly grabbed his left arm and doubled over, apparently in agony. "Sir..." the old man prompted. "Sir, should I call a doctor?"

"Do Not," Lucius spat, looking up from his cramped position, eyes blazing. "I don't want anyone near me. Get me to my cell. I was afraid of this. I will have to ride it out."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Another place in which the Prophet was not being perused that day was in Godric's Hollow. Even if Harry, Remus or Snape had wanted to subscribe to that - or any - newspaper, they were fairly certain that, one way or another, the Fidelius charm that protected the house in the Hollow would frustrate their attempts to do so. The newspaper agent would forget having spoken to anyone from Godric's Hollow, or - if he were reminded strongly enough - he would forget the address. If the address were handed to him written down, he would lose the parchment, and if the new subscription ever were to be recorded, the distributor would forget to send a copy to that particular new customer. No one was really certain that the Fidelius' protection of Godric's Hollow remained so powerfully active as it had been for over fifteen years, and no one knew whether drawing the outside world's attention back to the Hollow would destroy the last of the charm's effects... but no one living there wanted to test it, in any case. If the remnants of a years-old Fidelius could grant them a little privacy and secure them some protection, then it was too valuable an asset to risk for nothing more than a copy of Britain's favorite newspaper.

Moreover, Harry wouldn't have had the time to read the Prophet that day even if he had been given a copy. For two days in a row - the days which would have been the first class days of his new term, had he returned to Hogwarts - he had been subjected to six hours of what Remus called 'formal schooling' in addition to his ongoing studies of government, recent history and social graces. On top of all of that were his practice sessions during which he worked on the magical abilities that Remus called 'wild magic.' The magic practice was particularly grueling, and Harry found that the less he depended on tiredness and shock to call forth his 'wild magic' abilities, the more he felt as though he were groping for something that he could barely touch, and could never really grasp. He had managed to complete several of the exercises Remus and Snape had designed to help him develop his powers, but even a successful attempt usually left him tired and aching, with a persistent pounding in his head.

In the late afternoon of the day on which Cornelius Fudge's interview was published by the Daily Prophet, Harry had already completed six hours of classroom study under Remus' supervision. At the end of those six hours, Snape beckoned both Harry and Remus into one of the bedrooms, and showed them the exercise he had set up there. The task was extremely simple. All Harry had to do was levitate a stone from where it sat on the bare wooden floor and place it on top of a delicate bedside table. An average second year Hogwarts student (or even a particularly bright first year) could accomplish the feat by using magic. And what's more, that youngster's magical effort would prove quicker, and less troublesome, than simply lifting the stone and placing it where he wanted it to go. Such an estimation presumed that the student in question would have his wand, could use his voice, and would be familiar with the common Wingardium Leviosa spell. Harry, by contrast, was tasked to move the rock without using his wand. If successful in that attempt, he was to repeat the exercise, still without his wand, but this time without speaking. If that worked, he was expected to close his eyes, turn his back on the stone and table, and repeat the procedure without wand, without voice and without even looking at what he was doing. If he could accomplish that, he was to try the whole thing again from a different room, adding distance and intervening walls to the difficulties posed by blindness, muteness and wandlessness.

Harry felt his headache begin just listening to the description of the exercise.

The challenge was obvious. Beyond overcoming the difficulties of using magic without the usual tools that had been available to wizards since the beginning of recorded magical history, the real problem Harry would have to overcome was control. His first experiences with wild magic - trapping his cousin in a boa cage and blowing up his aunt - had been out of control by definition. At the time, he hadn't even realized that he had been performing spells. The instances of wild magic that had led to Snape and Remus becoming involved in developing his special abilities, and which had set him on the course to which he was now committed, had been completely undisciplined. He had been aware of casting the spells, but he had felt as if he were no more than a valve which allowed the power to flow through himself until he shut it off. There had been no question of controlling his power - he had simply been glad that he could use it at all. When the question he most wanted answered was merely whether he could access and utilize enough power to actually hurt Voldemort in a duel, setting brooms on fire and knocking a boggart through a wall were good indicators that he probably did have that kind of power. Now that it was time to start considering strategies and tactics, mere uncontrolled offensive force was not enough.

What if he lost his wand? What if he were rendered mute? Would he still be able to cast spells? His experience suggested that he could, but how could he depend on power over which he had no control? What if Voldemort had a hostage? Would Harry be able to attack the Dark Lord without injuring the innocent prisoner? What if (and this was the scenario that had been giving him nightmares for the past week) Harry had to attack Voldemort - and all his followers - together? Would Harry be able to cast enough spells, offensive and defensive, to keep himself alive while defeating the gathered Death Eaters and their leader? Even more frightening, what if Harry were to be robbed of his wand, struck dumb with a silencing spell, transported to an unfamiliar place, left in the dark, and have to face Voldemort and all of the Death Eaters, each of whom held a hostage? Such an extreme scenario seemed unlikely. It seemed foolish, even paranoid, to consider it. But deep down inside, Harry was certain that just such a scene would surround his final meeting with Voldemort. He was determined to be prepared to face anything he might meet. The exercises, painful as they were, actually helped him understand what he was doing. This particular exercise had the potential to teach him some very useful techniques. So he concentrated on the rock.

It wasn't a boulder, but it was a good sized chunk of hard stone, about twelve kilos in weight. There were no particularly sharp edges chipped into it, but its surface was rough all over, and if he failed to pick it up cleanly, Harry could send it scraping across the floor, scratching the wood. If he booted it too hard, he could send it flying through a wall. If he sent it upward too sharply, he might put it through the ceiling. And if he brought it down too heavily, he could smash the delicate table into splinters. There would be no time during the exercise at which he could relax; no direction he could take for granted. He would have to maintain control even when letting the stone settle onto the tabletop. Still, each one of this set of exercises he had successfully completed so far had improved his abilities and given him further access to the tremendous power that remained, for the most part, just out of his reach. It was important work. It might prove crucial to his survival. Harry took a deep breath and let half of it out, shaking his hands to dispell the tension in them. Remus and Snape moved quickly out of the room, and Harry began to experiment with different approaches to his problem.

First, he simply visualized the stone rising from the ground, floating through the air and settling gently on the table. He had tried this technique during most of his recent practice sessions. Since it was nearly effortless, and so far had remained completely ineffective, he had begun thinking of it as the 'Daydream Method.' He spent very little time on visualizing the exercise's completion this time around, since once again it seemed to have no effect on the real world. It certainly would have been nice, however, to be able to accomplish magic just by wishing for it.

Next, he tried searching for an emotional trigger that would activate his power. It seemed to him that in every case in which he had accomplished spontaneous magic, there had been such a trigger. When he blew up his aunt, there had been anger. When he had set free the boa and trapped Dudley behind the glass of the snake's former cage, there had been the twin motivators of his genuine sympathy for the snake, and his hatred of his cousin. When he had defended himself against the four broom riders' attack at Hogwarts, there had been real fear for his own life. But he had been angry and sympathetic and afraid many times before and since those incidents without any perceptible spontaneous magic being generated. Why had that been? Or not been? He wasn't even sure of how to phrase the question, but the fact remained: if strong emotions were all that was necessary to release wild magic, Harry should have been surrounded by spontaneous spells throughout his entire life.

Except in the case of this particular exercise. Strong emotions were simply not involved. He stared at the stone on the floor. He wasn't afraid of it. He didn't hate it. It had done nothing to make him angry. He hated to disappoint Remus, which failing this exercise would do, but that emotion didn't transfer very easily to a rock. He didn't want to give Snape any further reasons to smirk condescendingly at him, but he couldn't make himself believe it was the stone's fault that Snape was a sarcastic mocker. Harry scowled at the unmoving stone, and silently tried to project a thought at the unresponsive mineral: 'Obey me! Rise!' The rock sat there, unmoved. Harry waved his hands in tiny circles, as though trying to waft aromatic steam from a simmering soup up to his face. He clenched his teeth and tensed his belly. 'Up! Off the ground!' he thought, pressing his lips into a tight white line, all to no effect. He stared at the stone until all else faded from his vision. In Harry's view, there was the rock, in sharp focus, and the rest of the universe, a blur fading away to nothing. He stretched his neck, pulled his shoulders up, rocked his weight forward onto his toes. Nothing. In frustration, he waved his arms in broad arcs and spoke out loud. "Up!"

Harry immediately winced as the rock flew directly upward, tapped the ceiling, and fell hard onto the floor, exactly where it had been before he had moved it. He stopped moving immediately and said nothing more, searching his memory for exactly what he had felt just before the rock flew up and he winced in frustration. Frustration! That was it! He had finally frustrated himself enough that his power had broken free to try to alleviate his discomfort.

Or had it? Harry examined his feelings, his memory, and his posture. He felt which muscles were still tense, which were relaxed. He thought about it until he was pretty sure that he couldn't remember any more about how he had felt at the crucial moment during which the rock had moved. Then he tried once again. He pulled his mouth into a disappointed scowl, tensed his belly, glared at the rock in what felt like genuine frustration. He waved his arms in broad arcs once again and tried to concentrate a thought onto the chunk of stone on the floor. 'Up... Up!... UP!'

And there was something there... something elusive, slippery and subtle. Not quite a handle, not really a mood, not a definite trigger nor a specific thought, it was nonetheless something that he could just barely perceive, and if he could only reach just a little further...

"You may speak during this portion of the exercise, Mister Potter," Snape's impatient drawl sounded through the room, breaking Harry's concentration, making him suddenly furious.

Harry whirled to his left to face the door to the hallway in which Snape and Remus waited. His face a mask of rage, Harry shouted, "Shut up, you..." then twisted immediately back to his right, to see that the rock on which he had been concentrating was flying on a low trajectory toward the wall, directly opposite to the direction he had turned to face. Harry already had his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth just behind his front teeth, ready to shout 'No!' in an automatic reaction. A sudden inspiration hit him, and instead of a simple negative, he bellowed "Get Back Here!" instead.

He felt a surge of fierce pride as he saw the rock reverse course in mid-air. That feeling turned sour in an instant as he saw that the rock had bashed into the wall before he could reverse its course. It had broken a hole in the wallboard, revealing the framing wood behind, and Harry realized that the boom he had heard was not from the power of his own magic, but from the flying stone doing damage to his house. An instant later, his soured pride turned to alarm as he realized that the rock was heading straight for him, and was travelling very fast.

Harry's first impulse when he saw the stone flying for him like a cannonball was to cast a spell. He had a sudden visualization of himself, giving some command, imperiously holding up a hand, glaring at the missile with his irresistible gaze and projecting a thought onto the rock to impose his control upon it. But he had no time for a long spell or a complex movement or a thought experiment. He faced the flying stone's approach squarely and, with the absolute self confidence of a military drill instructor, he barked, "STOP!"

Harry had a very odd impression immediately after having given his order. He never once doubted that it had worked. An observer may have seen Harry's confident stance and heard his commanding voice and accepted the success of such a masterfully cast spell as a matter of course. But to Harry, the very sureness and certainty of casting a previously untried spell stood in stark contrast to his entire experience with learning magic.

Harry's previous five years of schooling could be seen as a long string of magical failures capped with a few successes. While learning any spell, every student - even the best ones - got it wrong at first. There was the wording of the spell to learn, and the proper pronunciation. The wand motion was crucial, and usually had to be learned separately. But for the spell to work, the wand motion would then have to be performed simultaneously with the speaking of the spell. Over and above those things, there was the magic itself. A muggle could wiggle a stick about and mutter 'Lumos' for years without seeing a single spark of light as a result of the effort. A wizard could call forth illumination with that spell every time he cast it, and a good wizard could achieve whatever range and intensity of light that he wished. But the wizard achieved his brilliant result not because he had twirled his wand more cleverly, or pronounced the key word more fluently. It was because he had made proper use of his magic. And so the calling forth of that energy, the directing and controlling and constraining of the tremendous power of magic, was the real lesson that every student had to learn in order to cast spells at all. So for five years, Harry had known he was a wizard, and had been learning spells. And as he undertook to learn each one, he had failed to cast it properly, practiced and made progress, enjoyed some limited success, received help from instructors, experienced greater success, forgot some elements while concentrating on others, and finally, after dozens or even scores of failures with any particular spell, he had cast it successfully. After which, he - like so many students - frequently lost the skill, whether through forgetting the correct pronunciation of the words, becoming lax or lazy with his wand, or - more crucially - losing the particular connection to his magical power that enabled him to perform that spell correctly. So Harry's experience with magic had two distinct aspects. There were spells that he had learned well and had repeated so often that he could cast them almost without a conscious thought. Lumos, Accio, Alohamora; these were all so familiar, so often repeated, that Harry felt them as part of himself. The constant use of these and other familiar spells reinforced Harry's understanding of himself as a wizard, and constantly supported his confidence in his magic. But his learning of each new spell - including all of those familiar ones, when he was first introduced to them - had been preceded by repeated failure to cast them.

So when Harry ordered the flying stone to stop... and knew immediately - felt immediately - that his attempt had been absolutely successful... the feeling was so strange, so unexpected, that it took him aback, and he stood staring at the rock, examining his feelings, wondering about magic, and his relationship to it. And that is when he finally realized that there were more strange aspects to his spell than its instant success. The stone was in mid-air, at exactly the spot it had been when the 'P!' of Harry's Stop order had exploded from his lips. But it was not hovering, like a golden snitch could hover. It was not spinning in place, as would a bludger struck simultaneously from opposite sides by two beater bats. It was not wobbling, the way one would expect from an object levitated by Wingardium Leviosa. Nor was it swaying, as though hung on a rope. It was just... there. Harry took a deep breath to call out to the men in the hallway, but stopped before he spoke, shocked at how difficult the simple act of breathing felt. He wondered if the effort of stopping the stone had really taken that much out of him. He waited to see if he would feel dizzy or faint, but feeling neither, he shrugged off the difficulty of catching his breath and said, "Remus? Professor Snape? I think you should see this." The sound of his voice was unfamiliar to his own ears. It sounded like he were speaking with a towel wrapped around his head. His voice was close, dull and muffled. He began to worry that he might have damaged his ears somehow, then thought of what that muffled voice sound reminded him of. He sounded like that when telling someone to go away as he lay in bed with his covers over his head. He laughed, and his mood lightened. But he had not yet heard any reply from his teachers out in the hallway. He called again, louder. "Remus! Professor Snape! You really ought to see what's in here!"

When he again heard no reply, Harry went to see why. He was sure he had used up a lot of his energy as he took his first steps toward the door, because it seemed hard to move, as though the air itself were resistant to his moving through it. He felt as though he were trying to walk underwater, his feet dragging, his arms unable to swing freely. Bad enough as it was to be so burdened by the mere act of walking through a small room, there was an irritating sound as he moved, as well. A sucking, slurping sound that he was sure must have come from outside the house, but which sounded as though it were being generated right behind his own ears. He shook his head to clear it, but his problem was not one of headache or confusion. In fact, despite the feeling of resistance working against his movement, he didn't feel sore nor injured, either. On the contrary, he was alert, awake, hale and healthy so far as he could tell. It was just hard to move. And the slurping sound continued as he walked.

Harry looked out into the hallway. "Remus?" he called tentatively. 'Well that's irritating,' Harry thought with rising anger. There stood Remus, calmly talking to Snape. Or... not talking, actually. Just standing there with his mouth open as though he were about to say something. Or as though he had been in the middle of saying something when he was suddenly interrupted... "Remus!" Harry shouted. Neither of the men moved at all. Harry approached Remus until he was nearly nose to nose with the man. "Remus!" Remus and Snape both stayed as motionless as the stone Harry had left in the other room. Real fear began to rise in Harry's belly. Already convinced of what had happened, he still looked around for anyone who might have broken into the house and cursed his friends. The house held no one except Harry, Remus and Snape. Harry stopped to listen. There was nothing. It wasn't merely quiet, there was no sound at all except for that which Harry himself made. If he held his breath, Harry could hear the pounding of his pulse through the veins in his ears. Everything around the entire house was absolutely silent.

Convinced that his own Stop spell was the cause of the general cessation of all activity in the surrounding area, Harry went outside. The door opened reluctantly, as though it weighed many times more than it had mere moments ago. Harry walked out to the roadway and looked along it as far as he could see. There was no traffic. There were no birds. There was no breeze. Harry wondered if an idea such as 'A few minutes ago' even had any meaning for him now. If he were the only thing moving, did time pass? He was getting used to the effort involved in breathing, and he had not begun to suffocate, so he figured that the air he did manage to force into his lungs was doing him some good. But what if he became hungry? If he ate, would the food digest? Or would he gorge on delicacies until his belly was distended and starve to death while stuffed full of good things to eat? He needed to gain some perspective on his predicament. He found a place to sit on the ground, reclining against the front porch. In that position, the sun appeared to sit just at the top of one of the trees that lined the road. Harry forced himself to look all around, and not stare at the sun, as he slowly counted to sixty ten times. When he had done that, he counted to sixty five more times. Then five more. Then he deliberately looked away from the roadside trees and waited until he could no longer stand the suspense. He checked his chosen tree top.

The sun had not moved at all.

Harry's heart sank. What could this mean for the world? Was everyone, everywhere, simply frozen? Were they aware of what had happened? Could some powerful wizard, somewhere, have proven resistant to Harry's spell? And could he, even now, be casting the magic that might dispell its effects?

Harry stood up with determination. There was one wizard who had not been affected - Harry Potter. And that wizard was going to return the world to its proper state. Drawing his wand and facing the window through which his levitate-the-stone experiment had taken place, Harry cast the familiar, reliable spell to end a spell's effects. "Finite Incantatem!"

Absolutely nothing changed. The silence remained. The birds still did not fly. The leaves failed to rustle. "Finite Incantatem," Harry said again, with less conviction than before. Once again, there was no effect. "Maybe I have to be where I was when I cast the first spell," Harry muttered to himself as he strode purposefully toward his front door. He walked through the house, feeling a shudder of horror as he passed the motionless Remus and Snape, then returned to his position directly in the flying stone's path, where he had commanded it to Stop. Steeling himself for a shock, trying to prepare himself to leap out of the way once the rock resumed its motion, Harry waved his wand. "Finite Incantatem!"

He jumped to the side, rolled as he landed on the floor, and turned to train his wand onto the dangerous missile he had leapt to avoid. The stone remained motionless, right where it had been since it had obeyed the order to Stop.

Harry stood, near to tears. He hadn't really been surprised by the failure of his first two Finite spells. They had been impulsive reactions and had probably been too far from the source point of the Stop spell to have actually been able to dispell it. But this last attempt had been well thought out, and cast with conviction. He had stood at the very spot from which he had cast the spell he wished to dispell. He had used the correct spell-dispelling magic. He had even remembered to get himself out of the way of the oncoming missile. All to no avail.

Harry stared at the motionless rock, thinking about what he could do with this opportunity if he only had a little more information. He could go kill Voldemort. It would be easy. Harry had all the time in the world - literally. He could stand there and beat the Dark Lord to death with a feather duster if he had the patience to do so. No one, not even Voldemort himself, could do anything to stop it from happening. But that is why criminals had hideouts. Harry had no idea where to find his enemy. Or where to start looking, for that matter. And assuming that Harry would age while the rest of the world waited, frozen in time, Harry could well be a dottering ancient by the time he discovered where Voldemort had hidden.

There were other things he could do. He could put Cornelius Fudge into a compromising position and place a Daily Prophet photographer in place to capture the setup on film. But there were problems with that, as well. The photographer would realize that he had been suddenly transported from wherever he had been to the very spot at which he could get a valuable photo. He would probably take the picture, but there would be a lot of suspicion cast on the way in which he was able to get it. And frankly, Harry didn't really know how to arrange a compromising position... although he did have one idea featuring Percy Weasley bent over a desk... But that wasn't any good, either. Percy himself would know that he had been set up, even if his protests initially fell on deaf ears. And despite his attitude, Percy was still a Weasley, and that family had always been able to get the truth out of Harry eventually, no matter what the situation. Besides, if Harry wasn't able to turn time back on, anything he was able to accomplish would be futile. He had to make his own spell stop working...

'Of course!' Harry congratulated himself on seeing the obvious. He concentrated on all of the effects his spell had caused, and with steel in his voice, commanded them all to "STOP!" once again. The rock remained motionless in mid-air. The silence remained profound. And Harry began to cry, tears running slowly and heavily down his cheeks.

He had no idea how long he stood there weeping, or whether 'how long' was even a meaningful question any longer. But eventually, he pulled himself together and began to think through his options. One of the most frustrating aspects of this situation was that if he were actually able to turn off the Stop spell, no one would realize what had happened. Remus and Snape would never believe that he had done all of this while they stood frozen. There had to be some way to show that the impossible had occurred. With a smile, Harry walked back outside.

He didn't want to do anything mean, hurtful or destructive. He merely wanted to be able to show some token to indicate that his story was true once he returned the world to the normal passing of time. And he would do that. The more he thought about it, the more confident he became. He had cast this spell. He was its source, and he would be its master. And if anyone didn't like that, too bad. Who else had ever stopped the entire world with a word? Harry scowled. There had been some story from the Bible about stopping the sun in the sky... or maybe that was about not being able to stop the sun in the sky... whatever. The Dursleys, for all their pretense of being socially proper denizens of Little Whinging, had never taken the local church very seriously, and Harry had never learned very much about any religion. Unless you could consider Aunt Petunia's cult of normalcy or Uncle Vernon's hatred of all things magical to be religious beliefs. Harry shrugged. If someone had stopped time in ancient days, then they must have gotten it started up again, or modern times would never have happened. If anything, a story about stopping the sun should give him more confidence than ever that he could put things right again. He strode resolutely through the yard. With great patience, he picked a huge double-armful of flowers, each with as long a stem as possible. He went back into the house and contemplated Remus and Snape.

He placed a bouquet in each of their hands. He put a flower behind each of their ears. He tried to place flowers in mid-air above their heads, but the blossoms - each of which had been completely unmoving before Harry had touched it - fell slowly through the heavy air to rest on the men's heads and shoulders. Harry decided that would be sufficient for his purposes, scattered the remaining twigs and loose petals at the men's feet, and returned to the room in which he had cast his powerful spell.

He decided to stand somewhere else than in the direct path of the missile, this time. He stood quite near to the stone, feeling that it was at that point that his spell had been concentrated, and that, while dispelling it, he should be as close as possible. He looked hard at the delicate table onto which he was supposed to have placed the rock. He pictured the stone sitting daintily on the table top, measured the distance from the rock's current position to its goal, sighted along the path the missile had taken from the broken wall to where it was now, and returned his gaze to the stone once again. He allowed his confidence to build, allowed the surety of his authority to fill his heart, allowed his determination to come to the forefront of his thoughts; and once he was completely ready, he barked out his command. "GO!"

The stone went. It did not accelerate, as any normal object must do in order to reach a great speed. It put all other quick-starting things to shame. It wasn't like a rocket, or a spring, or a jumping flea. It was absolutely motionless when Harry spoke... and then immediately, without any transition period at all, it was moving as swiftly as it had been when Harry had Stopped it to save his own life. As strange as the sudden motion was, it was even more strange to see it curve away from its cannonball-like course to fly toward the table. Harry felt a surge of exultation - which was dimmed somewhat when the stone, instead of landing daintily, smashed the table into a flying storm of splinters and sawdust. Once it had accomplished that, its momentum abandoned it, and it settled heavily to the ground, rocking noisily back and forth on the place where the delicate table had once stood.

A twin exclamation of "Eeaugh!" came from the hallway. Harry laughed out loud. He had broken a wall of his house and smashed what was likely a valuable antique table in the process, but he had made a great stride toward the kind of magic he would have to be able to use in order to accomplish his goals. He and Remus and Snape would have a lot to talk about.

Proudly, Harry strutted toward the hallway, anticipating the looks of amazement on the faces of the men there. So he was rather surprised when he walked through the doorway only to see Remus, flowers still covering his shoulders, two long stems stuck behind his ears, offering support to Snape, who was grimacing in pain, squeezing his left forearm with his right hand, unselfconsciously leaning on Lupin. "Professor Snape...?" Harry ventured. Remus shot him a warning look. Snape squeezed his eyes shut, his lips pulling back as another wave of pain shot through him.

"It is... particularly odious this time," Snape panted, half bent over, left arm cradled near his belly, right hand gripping until the knuckles turned white. "Perhaps this is meant to convey urgency. In any case, I shall have to respond as quickly as possible. What is this all over me?"

"Flowers," Remus replied with a calm that astonished Harry.

"Potter," Snape growled. "Is this your..." then he bent nearly double, his forehead near his knees, a strangled sound forced from his throat.

"Professor Snape," Remus instructed coolly, "go now. Do not delay any longer. Do not leave the house. Just go. Now."

Snape looked up with something close to panic in his eyes. "Lupin. You know that if I have been found out... I will not be able to warn you."

"Severus," Remus stated sternly, and glared directly back into the potion professor's dark eyes as Snape's face hardened in response to the use of his given name. "We have been over this. You are in agony. I know the plan. Harry and I will be safe. Go. Now."

Snape looked down at his left arm, directly at the spot which, beneath its perpetual covering of long, heavy sleeves, bore the Dark Mark. He shook his head slowly, sadly. "What sort of general summons his troops by inflicting such pain as renders them useless?" He pushed Remus away, gently. Then, with a loud report, he vanished.

Remus stood looking at Harry. There were petals in the werewolf's hair, flowers on his shoulders and long stems still stuck behind his ears. He raised an eyebrow and made a soft tutting sound as he inspected the boy. "For all that he can be a dour killjoy," Remus drawled, "Professor Snape is correct. The Death Eaters may have discovered his dual agent activities, and should they have done so, they would most likely kill him. And because of your unique relationship to their leader, they would also wish to kill you. So, we must go someplace safe."

Harry spread his hands, looking around at the surrounding structure. "Where is safer than this? Especially if we know they're coming?"

Remus smiled slyly. "Australia," he replied simply.

Harry's eyebrows shot up, his eyes opened wide, his top lip curled up until it nearly touched his nose. "Why?"

Remus thought about how much to tell the cub, and in light of the boy's recent studies - and Remus' own plan for Harry's future - the werewolf decided to be blunt. "We don't know the Death Eaters are coming. And if they are, we don't know when. That is because we don't know how long it will take Severus to break under torture. Voldemort could use veritaserum, and most likely will. But he will distrust the results of any interrogation of Severus Snape which involves Professor Snape taking his own potion. And I'm willing to bet that the only veritaserum Voldemort would ever use would be that which was brewed by Professor Snape. But Voldemort is a deeply paranoid old man, used to being hated and betrayed. He will not trust the serum to bring out all of the truth. He will be certain that the Potions Master has devised some kind of protective scheme to prevent the serum's effect upon him. He will imagine that Professor Snape had inoculated himself with the potion, becoming gradually immune to its effects. He will realize that this key servant, this potions maker that he trusted, had been serving as a spy against him for many years. He will wonder how deeply the betrayal might have gone, how deeply a string of lies could have been embedded, whether Professor Snape might be answering the interrogators from a litany memorized under hypnosis, for example. And, as you know, Voldemort is famously cruel. He would insist on torture if only to maintain his own reputation, and as a lesson to any of his followers who may be considering their own individual treacheries. But Severus Snape is surprisingly strong. He has had to be, simply to survive his life of double agency. He will confound and confuse his interrogators. He will lie to them outright for as long as he can, then he will give them misleading answers that they can misinterpret for themselves. So unless you would like to stay awake, maintaining a defensive posture for the next few days, I suggest we go somewhere that the Death Eaters will not follow us... simply because they have no way of learning of its location. Professor Snape himself does not know. So, he cannot betray that knowledge to Voldemort."

Harry glared back at Remus, unwilling to accept the conclusion that he would have to run. It had been so little time since he had rediscovered his parent's home... his home... his real home, from the happy time when his mother and father were still alive. If he abandoned it now, and the Death Eaters showed up, there would be nothing to keep them from destroying this precious link to his own past, his real family. They would probably enjoy ruining the home, for nothing more than the joy of destruction, not to mention the suffering it would cause him.

Remus watched the emotions play across Harry's face. The boy's posture, his expression... his entire attitude so epitomized The Adolescent Male In Rebellion that it nearly broke Remus' heart to see it. Here was the boy, staunchly rejecting the opinions of his stodgy elders, defiantly demanding that authority move aside so that his feelings could be expressed, his ideas could be heard, his advice followed. The werewolf smiled at the irony. If their plans bore fruit, this defiant youth would soon be the ultimate authority on the entire globe. Remus studied the boy, wondering if what he had planned could in any way be considered the right thing to do. He fervently hoped so.

Harry forced himself to relax. He had studied situations exactly like this one. Blustering was exactly what he did not want to do in this case. He needed to keep in mind two things: confidence in his own power, and the fact that both he and Remus wanted to remain safe and ultimately to defeat the Death Eaters, who may or may not be coming to ambush them there in Godric's Hollow. He decided to use a conversational technique from one of his recent lessons, knowing that such a tactic would serve a double purpose. First, it would show Remus that he had been paying attention, which would please the man. And second, it would help him work up to what he really wanted to talk about. He had a very big point to make, and simply blurting it out would not be very effective. "Remus, did you wonder how it was that you became covered in flowers?"

Remus returned a wry smile. "I presumed you had done that."

"But you thought that I cast a spell to put them there, right?" Harry had leaned forward, eyes sparkling, thrusting with his question as though wielding a weapon.

Remus nodded slowly, wondering why Harry would ask for clarification of such an obvious assumption.

Harry smirked smugly. "I thought so. You're wrong. I put each and every flower on you with my own two hands."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "And that accounts for the bouquets appearing instantly, while you were in the bedroom directing that stone to smash a table into flinders." He cocked his head, looking a question at the boy before him.

Harry drew himself up to his full height to make his pronouncement. "Remus. I'll tell you what accounts for all of that. I stopped time. For what seemed like an hour to me, nothing moved unless I touched it. Not a bird, not a leaf... not even the sun." He let that statement sink in before continuing. As he went on, he dropped the pompous orator's pose and tried to describe what the experience had actually been like. "It was weird! The air was hard to breathe, hard to move through. Things were really heavy and resistant to being moved at all. And it was so quiet! My own heartbeat became really annoying! And I was afraid I would be stuck like that... stopped in time for years and years because I couldn't turn it off at first. I tried Finite Incantatem and it did no good, and I tried casting the same spell on the spell itself, and that went nowhere, and... when I finally figured it out, I thought I had better give you and Sn... Professor Snape some token of what had happened, or you wouldn't have believed anything had happened at all. So I picked flowers, and I put them on you and in your hands and hair and all around your feet. But... Remus? I stopped time. I stopped the sun. If I could do that... how could a bunch of Death Eaters hurt us?"

Remus' eyes had lost focus. He was deep in thought. "You know, Harry," he murmured, almost more to himself than to the boy, "You may have stopped time here... even stopped the way the sun appeared, here... but... just maybe... your spell didn't go quite so far as you thought."

Harry was offended. What was the man talking about? The sun had stopped in the sky, what more did he want? "I don't think so," he said stiffly.

"You say it seemed like about an hour?" Remus' dreamy voice continued. "You know, the way I understand it, when the Dark Mark is activated as a summons to a meeting with Voldemort, it hurts a little. Then, if the summons is ignored, or if something prevents the summoned one from responding, the pain increases steadily with time. The force of the pain that hit Professor Snape was tremendous, equivalent to what would be generated by a summons ignored for an hour or more. It could be that wherever Voldemort resides is beyond the scope of your spell."

"If the sun stopped moving, that implies that the whole world was affected," Harry said sourly.

"What makes you assume that Voldemort is anywhere in this world?" Remus asked calmly.

Harry scowled, wrinkled his nose, shook his head, sneered and finally looked Remus directly in the eye and flatly stated, "No." He waited for protest, but Remus merely inclined his head, indicating that Harry should make his case before rebuttals would begin. "Where would he go? Voldemort himself may be able to survive just about anything, but he keeps Peter Pettigrew with him. And he calls meetings of the Death Eaters. What planet could they be on? No. No, I don't believe that Voldemort is the Dark Lord and Space Ghost, too."

Remus smiled gently. "There are more ways to go than up, Harry."

"Down?" Harry suggested sarcastically.

"I mean hyperdimensionally," Remus said, as casually as he might have brought up a city bus route. "Where does magic reside? We don't see it in this world except through its actions on other things. Where does it come from? One theory is that it is all around us, right beside us in a direction that we cannot travel, since we are creatures of three spatial dimensions and one temporal dimension. Magic may be able to travel in a direction that is alien to us - neither up nor down, right nor left, back nor forward, but... oh... fnork to gzome, let's say. Voldemort could be hiding somewhere in one of those directions that - without some powerful magical assistance - we normally cannot go."

"Doesn't stand up," Harry countered, thinking furiously. "If he were 'there' - wherever 'there' is, then the Death Eaters would have to go 'there' to meet him. And if his lair were somewhere in some other dimension, then his meeting places would have to display some of the qualities of that 'direction we cannot go' in the setting in which the Death Eaters meet. And Sn... Professor Snape has been to lots of Death Eater meetings. And he's seen nothing of the kind. So I'm voting that Voldemort's hideout is right here on Earth. And that if the Death Eaters come to get us, I'll stop time and cut them all to ribbons as instantly as your flowers appeared behind your ears."

"Can you do that while you are asleep?"

Chest thrust out and head held high, Harry looked ready to take on legions of dark wizards at that very moment. "I... I can... What I can do is..." Desperately searching for a stronger, and even more aggressive claim, Harry thought of his lessons with Narcissa, especially those in which she had deliberately goaded him into anger with insults or by referring to his parents' deaths. The guiding principle she had attempted to drive into his mind was simple, and appropriately easy to recall at times of stress and conflict. As Narcissa herself had put it, 'Harry, shut up.' He did so. He considered what Remus was saying, saw the truth and logic of the werewolf's position. But there was a loophole in the man's argument, something that might allow Harry and Remus to stay there, guarding Harry's home, for a little longer. Purposefully adopting a less confrontational posture, Harry said, "I'd like to offer a compromise."

Remus smiled, but successfully kept himself from laughing. Each step of Harry's thinking had been so clearly telegraphed by his face and body that almost anyone with any experience in negotiation could have followed it from a hundred meters away. And Remus could have sworn that he could smell the differences caused by each surge of emotion through the boy. "Yes, Harry?"

"Let's stay here... back to back with our wands at the ready, if you insist, for as long as we can remain alert. When either one of us gets tired enough or bored enough to lose his edge, we'll go to... wherever it is that you want to hide us."

Remus nodded in acknowledgement of the wisdom of Harry's argument, the simple dip of his head as smooth and serious as a formal bow. He was proud of the tenacity the cub showed in the defense of his territory, and proud as well of the way in which the demanding, inflexible Potter had developed into a young man who could see both sides of an argument and compromise accordingly. "I suspect that I will tire first," Remus admitted. "Will you take my word when I tell you I can no longer keep a proper watch?" Harry nodded solemnly. "Good. Then, will you please help me get these flowers out of my hair? If our enemies do show up, I think I would look ridiculous as the hippy who fought the Death Eaters."

Harry began to pick vegetable matter off of Remus. "What's a hippy?"

Lupin looked rather embarrassed. "It's... um... a fashion thing. Mostly American, I believe. Harry? Have you ever heard of a beatnik?"

"Beetnick?" Harry repeated blankly.

Remus sighed. "Never mind. I'm older than I remember, sometimes. And I have always paid too much attention to appearance. Foolish, really, when the scent can tell me so much more about a person."

Harry shrugged, having failed to follow the last exchange at all. "There. You're clean. No more hippee. But there are stems all over the floor. I should get a broom."

"No!" Remus ordered, causing Harry to look back at him in alarm. "Don't get distracted. That's exactly the wrong thing to do, now. Let's go somewhere else. We can clean this up later. Living room or kitchen?"

Harry considered. The living room was wide, and would give them both room to maneuver if they were attacked. But the kitchen was inviting, comfortable, and somehow felt like the heart of the house. "Kitchen," he said, leading the way.

They had not sat for very long when a loud bang announced the arrival of an apparator. From the sound of it, there was only one, but Harry and Remus advanced on the location like soldiers, wands held forward, ready to spit curses. Before they had crossed half of the kitchen, the apparator came to them. It was Severus Snape, looking exhausted, and even paler than usual.

"Put those down," Snape said disdainfully, indicating Remus' and Harry's wands with a lazy gesture. "And why aren't you elsewhere?"

"Harry suggested that we remain as long as we were both sufficiently alert to respond to an attack. Given the circumstances, I agreed. Harry's stone exercise produced a very interesting side effect. We are going to have to investigate that effect very carefully."

Snape sniffed, scowling at the explanation. "Fortunately for you, the Death Eaters were occupied with other matters. Thus, you survive. But our program must accelerate. The summons I received today was urgent indeed. The Death Eaters' next major strike has been planned. It is to take place on Halloween."

-

"It's Halloween!" George shouted, staring in horror at the receiver which had just relayed the announcement from Voldemort's throne room to a small, dark room in the Weasleys' warehouse.

Draco stood staring, pale and shaken, just behind George's shoulder. "If this is a joke, Weasley..." he threatened weakly.

"No..." George said absently, not taking his attention away from the device he had designed with his twin. When they had first thought of the 'Extra-Range Extended Extensible Ear,' they had imagined siblings spying on one another's play, or at the most extreme, young lovers listening in on what their sweethearts were up to while on their own. To have the receiver spitting out the plan that would set the curses of the Death Eaters loose on all of Britain was sickeningly fascinating. Draco started to say something and George silenced him with a hiss, pointing to the mirror that was recording all of the sounds in the room so that the messages received through the Ear could be called forth, repeated and studied at leisure.

Draco grunted unhappily, but fell silent, listening for clues as to who might be in the murmuring crowd of followers being addressed by the Dark Lord. His father would have been there if he were not in jail. Draco himself would have been there if he were only a little older. He wondered how many of the people who had attended his own meeting with Voldemort were attending. No individual voices stood out from the general rumbling of agreement that was all that the followers offered during their Lord's speech. Snape would be one of those mumbling assenters. The very man who was training The Boy Who Lived to kill Voldemort was standing there, grumbling agreement with the Dark Lord's plans. He was probably being issued orders, given lists of victims to be captured or killed. And if Lucius weren't in jail... and if Draco himself were only a little older... there they would stand, father and son, listening to the Dark Lord's plan, delivered in that voice that sounded like a wood saw cutting through tin sheeting. 'And what are you doing to free my father?' Draco thought bitterly. 'If you wait until Halloween for your grand attack, my father will be convicted already - maybe even already dead. Will you even think of him? And what have you done to support my mother - what have you done for me? You let me tell my father's story to your new recruits, but what good does that do? I hope Potter does kill you. Bastard.'

Draco was so wrapped up in his bitter rage that he wasn't aware of George signalling to him until the redhead grabbed him by the shoulders and steered him out of the room. George reached back and gently closed the door. Draco was surprised to see the gleam of triumph in George's eyes. "What are you so happy about?" Draco sneered. "So we heard them. Big deal. It's all happening too soon. Halloween is... what... a month away?

"More than a month," George corrected with a smile. "It's the last day of October. But you heard what else he said." George waited for Draco to catch on. When Malfoy showed no indication of doing so, George explained, "The Revel. They're going to have a revel the day before!"

"So?"

"So we know when they're all going to be together."

"But not where."

"I think someone knows where," George said with a wink.

Draco felt cold. Snape? Draco wanted no harm to come to Severus Snape. In fact, if he were to make a list of all of the people who had not treated him like shite his entire life, he would only need two lines. One for his mother. The other for Severus Snape. If Snape were to lead enemies into the lair of the Dark Lord, there would be many problems The tactics could prove extremely tricky. Draco could barely visualize what methods Snape might employ to achieve his goals. There were far too many questions to voice. "How?" was all Draco could manage to ask.

George shrugged. "I don't know. I thought I might leave that up to the more experienced combatants involved in our little plot. Which brings up a question: Have you seen Mister Potter around your house lately? Taking speech lessons from your mother, for example?" Draco shook his head. "Bollocks," George spat in disgust. "We get all this going, set up a good place for Potter to practice his Voldemort-killing stuff, we finally hear what the Death Eaters' plan is going to be, and the bloody key players go into hiding!"

Draco made a strangled sound of shock, which he managed to turn into an almost understandable, "What?"

"Yeah," George admitted. "Harry was practicing right here at the warehouse. Then he disappeared, Snape and Lupin with him. Hope they turn up soon. Say, isn't it time to get you back to France?"

-

By the time George got back to the shop, the Fudgecicles and their entourage had left. But the excitement of their visit still animated Fred and Charlotte, who took turns relating humorous anecdotes about the entertainers to an increasingly resentful George. When Charlotte left the twins to wait on a customer, George grabbed Fred's arm and dragged him into their office.

"Damnit!" George groused as he manhandled his twin through the doorway. "I would have liked to spend a scant minute with our illustrious visitors, but instead I get Malfoy."

"It's no reason to beat me up," Fred protested. "Besides, they bought heavily, and drooled over a number of items they did not purchase, so they'll be back without a doubt. And, we made the sales goal for today - and tomorrow - on their business alone, not counting all else we sold today, or whatever Charlotte can sell to that bloke out there right now. In short, we're rolling in galleons, and from all appearances, the Fudgecicles have become our newest fans. You'll have your chance. So what, did Malfoy have anything interesting to say?"

By the time Fred had voiced his question, George had checked to see that Charlotte was dealing with the customer and then had closed the door, turning the lock as he did so. He turned to face his brother, looking grim. "Shut up. We have a problem. The only important thing Malfoy had to say was that he hasn't seen Harry. But the Ear he placed had quite a lot to tell us. Voldemort had a meeting. It sounded like there were dozens of Death Eaters there. Maybe more. Hard to tell. All they were allowed to say was 'Yes, Sir,' and they said that all together. Voldemort's planning a major attack. First strike in a real war. Sounds nasty. Lots of killing. It'll happen on Halloween. If we're not prepared, we'll be fucked."

Fred was silent for only a second or two. When he recovered from the surprise, he didn't even take the time to congratulate his brother on their first successful use of the Ear. "We haven't seen Harry... or Snape or Lupin... in, what? Weeks, now. What happened to them?"

"I don't think Voldemort has them. He didn't say anything about it, and it seems like if he'd killed them - or captured them, or even driven them away - that would be something he'd brag about. But... nothing."

"So are they still going on with their plan?"

"And if they are, will they attack before Halloween?"

"And if they do get Voldemort, what about all the Death Eaters?"

"We ought to tell someone else."

"Oh, yeah? Who?"

"Dumbledore?"

The twins met each other's eyes, knowing that each was thinking along the same lines. Dumbledore would wonder where they had gotten their information. He might not believe them at all. What's more, according to the Potter - Snape - Lupin alliance, Dumbledore was not really their friend. But he did lead an organization of unique individuals, all of whom were opposed to Voldemort. And he had allies, throughout Britain and via the Wizengamut, many of whom could be called on for support. And if Harry were dead... or even if he were elsewhere until after Halloween, Dumbledore might be the most powerful ally they could have on their side. Still, it was only September, and the attack wasn't supposed to happen until the end of October.

In unison, the twins said, "We'll wait."

"We'll have time," George said, feigning more confidence than he had.

"Harry might get back in time for us to plan something," Fred said wishfully.

"Let's go see how Charlotte's doing with that customer."

"Yes. Let's."

Uncertainly, with nervous tension already boiling in their guts, the twins went back out into their stable, steady, fun-filled shop, wondering whether it could possibly survive whatever would be coming on October thirty-first.

-

The very next day, Cornelius Fudge stormed into his Chief of Staff's office, waving a rolled-up copy of that morning's Daily Prophet over his head like a club. In his other hand, he held a sheaf of notes detailing the results of the latest nationwide opinion polls. His face was even more flushed than usual, and his furious expression promised trouble to anyone who got in his way. The Minister had begun shouting before he was through the doorway, and as he entered, he seemed to sweep the sound of his voice into the room before him. "Deckard! Dec... Oh. There you are. Ahem." The Minister tugged his waistcoat straight and shrugged his shoulders to settle his suit coat more comfortably onto his shoulders. He faced his Chief of Staff squarely, held the poll results out, shook them until the pages rattled and demanded, "Mister Constantine, are you aware of this?"

Deckard Constantine returned his boss' gaze calmly. He was not often seen to be ruffled or rushed, even in the face of crisis or emergency. It wasn't that he was slow, neither mentally nor physically, and he was certainly not lazy. He simply tended toward calm efficiency in everything he did. The confident, almost serene face he most often showed the world usually helped restore the Minister's equanimity in times of stress. On this morning, seeing Deckard's impassive face merely made Fudge all the more furious. The Minister was bristling, weight forward on his toes, feet working like springs, flexing his brilliant spats as he puffed out his chest to strain the gaudy green and black diamond check fabric of his waistcoat. In stark contrast to the Minister's habitually flamboyant attire, the Chief of Staff's wardrobe was invariably somber. Deckard had two modes of dress when in the office: a muggle style, which adapted the plain black business suit much more neatly than did Minister Fudge's interpretation of the fashion; and the sort of outfit which the Chief of Staff was wearing that morning, which consisted mainly of a black robe so plain it more closely resembled a priest's cassock than most wizards' formalwear. Deckard regarded the poll result sheets, which he himself had placed on the Minister's desk much earlier that morning. He took note of the newspaper, correctly anticipating what it was that the Minister found to be of concern in today's issue. Given the items in the Minister's hands and the look on the Minister's face, Deckard could predict the coming exchange in its entirety. Nevertheless, it was his job to give the Minister his best advice, whether Fudge was likely to listen to it or not. Acknowledging Fudge's question with a nod, Deckard replied, "Yes, Sir."

"Do you?" Fudge snapped back, trembling with outrage. "Then perhaps you can explain this." He snapped the newspaper open to a page squarely in the middle of the Prophet's front section, on which was printed another extensive interview with Albus Dumbledore. The accompanying photo showed the Headmaster patiently explaining something. His expression was kindly, his hands moved expressively, and his cloud of white hair was subtly backlit, giving the impression of a halo. Deckard nodded once. He had already read the article, which consisted of nothing more than unrelenting criticism of Minister Fudge. The interviewer had made no attempt to challenge any of the Headmaster's statements, and showed up in the course of the text only intermittently, asking questions which amounted to nothing more than, 'Please, do go on.' The writing was about what anyone should expect from the Prophet, whose staff, in their lust for sensationalism, pounced on conflict of this sort and did their best to inflame it. Deckard could understand his boss' anger over Dumbledore's statements, but it hardly seemed important enough to have goaded the man into such upset. "Standard Prophet fare," Constantine shrugged.

Fudge's eyes flared at Deckard's simple answer. "That's it? That's your reaction to this... this slander?"

"Libel," Constantine corrected automatically.

"Well then," Fudge raged, refusing to acknowledge the correction, "An old man who can barely manage to run a school for children - a man whom we have had to assist by providing staffing to his school over the past two years - reviles me in the newspapers... not once, but twice now, in an ongoing series of public attacks. I appear in print to set the record straight, with an interview which appeared yesterday. And then we ask the public for their opinion of the exchange. Can you tell me, Deckard Constantine, why it is that I AM LOSING THE ARGUMENT?"

The Minister's face was bright red, flecks of spittle flew from his lips and he clenched his hands tightly enough to crush both the poll results and his newspaper into crumpled wads as he shouted. Deckard considered the Minister's question carefully, automatically rejecting his first impulse, which was to point out that by and large, 'newspapers' had not been interested in running a shouting match between Dumbledore and Fudge. It was only the Prophet that had run the interviews, and only the Prophet that was already pressuring the office staff for an appointment with the Minister for another interview to allow for a further rebuttal. There were more important points to be driven home, here. Perhaps this particular political disaster would help illustrate some of the basic mistakes Fudge had been making... and, admittedly, getting away with... for years.

"The reason, as I has been brought to your attention several times - such as in your staff's monthly digest memo dated August, of two years past, and your annual vital factors summary of last year - is that you have allowed your political organization to wither."

"What? What's that? My political organization, withered?" Fudge blustered. "I have the entire Ministry working for me, Constantine!"

Constantine looked almost sorrowful as he explained, "While it is true that each Ministry worker ultimately reports to you, Sir, neither the Ministry nor any of its individual employees works for you, personally. It and they are expected to do the work of governing all of wizarding Great Britain. That does not mean they are working to keep you in your current position. Many of them have quite openly supported opposing candidates in previous elections. This November's general vote will be no different. While none of the candidates opposing you pose much of a threat to unseat you, your lack of a powerful, coordinated political support organization does set the stage for you to garner an embarrassingly low percentage of the total votes cast. I can do some things to alleviate this that are quite effective. I can arrange for posters to be hung, I can schedule your public appearances, I can write speeches and make sure that reporters are on hand when you deliver them. But I cannot do the work of a thousand young volunteers, organizing rallies or canvassing neighborhoods on your behalf. I cannot make personal appeals to every voter who may support you in order to ensure that those voters are registered, informed and at the polls on election day. I cannot, by myself, generate the kind of word of mouth endorsements that so strongly influence voter participation. You need to devote some of your time and energy to reviving the kind of political support structure that got you elected in the first place, and which kept you in office when you made your first re-election bid."

Fudge made a frustrated grimace. He could clearly recall his Chief of Staff making these noises about volunteers and grass-roots support over the past few years, but he had thought the subject had been dismissed for one very good reason. "Deckard, the wealthiest wizards in the country support me. Not only do I get their endorsements, I get their contributions. I can raise more funds in a single meeting with one old-money family than I can with an entire nationwide tour of shaking hands and kissing babies."

"And that buys you a goodly number of posters, and some advertisements in the Prophet," Constantine admitted. "But it leaves you vulnerable - especially to criticism such as that you're getting from Dumbledore today. People don't feel they know you. So, they don't automatically reject negative comments when they read them."

"Don't know me?" Fudge scoffed. "There are wizards and witches who have never voted for any Minister but me in their entire lives. There are adult wizards and witches who cannot remember any other minister than me."

"And those people know you as distant and unreachable. An institution, not a man," Deckard warned. "On the other hand, those same people remember Albus Dumbledore very well from their school days. And they maintain a constant connection to him through their children, by virtue of his running Hogwarts. And well over three quarters of Hogwarts' graduates give the Headmaster an extremely high approval rating. And as they have children of their own, those numbers go up. There's a good reason for this. When English, Irish, Welsh or Scots parents send their children to school, they want to believe that Dumbledore is the best choice to direct their childrens' education. Their hopes - and their nostalgia for their own school days - affect their judgement."

"Then, Mister Constantine, their judgement is about to be shaken," Fudge snarled. "I have been doing some research, Deckard, and I have found something in regard to Albus Dumbledore that we will be able to exploit - something which will change our citizens' high approval of the Headmaster to high disapproval."

The Chief of Staff did not groan, nor did he sigh, nor did he offer any immediate protest. A number of separate, well-practiced habits of control helped Deckard to maintain a completely neutral expression in the face of the Minister's declamation. But behind his serene exterior, Constantine was worried. When Fudge "did research," he most often did it so poorly as to gain no useful information at all, and frequently the incomplete picture he developed from his flawed study inspired him to take actions, or to make public statements, that were more damaging to himself than to his targets. But before Deckard could effectively counter the Minister's misguided attempts, he needed to know what Fudge thought he had learned. "What would that be, Sir?"

Fudge smiled, settled his weight back onto his heels and tossed the newspaper and poll results onto Constantine's desk, scattering a stack of documents detailing the particulars of the next year's proposed budget. The Minister was much more comfortable than he had been mere moments before. Now he was the one in control - the one with the plan, the one to whom Deckard had to turn for an explanation. Cornelius hated being lectured, and even though one of the main reasons he employed Constantine was that the man was knowledgeable and perceptive - within the boundaries of his own specialty, of course - the Minister was never pleased with having to stand and listen to his Chief of Staff delivering any explanations that seemed critical or disapproving of Fudge's own opinions or actions. This situation suited the Minister much better. He would give Deckard the damning information, and then tell the man to make a great speech out of it, and to bring the reporters from the Prophet here to listen to it. Feeling quite well-chuffed with his successful pursuit of the truth, Fudge grinned maliciously as he laid out the background of his findings. "You are aware, aren't you, that our aurors have been visiting Hogwarts over the past few weeks, attempting to interview members of the staff there."

"Yes, Sir," Constantine replied smoothly. "That Sepal business."

"And not just Sepal," Fudge countered, raising a finger as though scolding his Chief of Staff. "I had given specific instructions that the aurors were to interview Severus Snape, as well."

Deckard clenched his teeth, refusing to react to the potion master's name. Fudge's fixation with Snape's presence at Hogwarts was an irritant that would not go away. Snape's name came up in every staff discussion about the school, and every time, Constantine would have to explain all over again that Severus Snape had received an official pardon for his unfortunate youthful participation in the Opposition, that Severus Snape had been an exemplary citizen since receiving his pardon, working tirelessly as a Professor at Hogwarts, and that the Ministry itself depended upon Severus Snape remaining a free man - and one favorably disposed to the government - because of the sheer number of high-quality potions the Ministry purchased from the man every year. Not trusting his voice, Deckard simply nodded, waiting for Fudge to go on.

"It seems as though Professor Snape has gone missing... and that he disappeared at the exact same time that aurors were arriving to question him. Very suspicious, wouldn't you say?"

Constantine ignored the question. "Disappeared?"

Fudge fluttered his hands, dismissing the particulars of the story. "Supposedly... he was in South America - hunting for potion ingredients, so they say. He rented a canoe... or a boat, or something... and when it came time to return the vessel - no more Snape." Fudge preened triumphantly at this announcement.

"So..." Deckard ventured cautiously, "he's guilty of piracy in South America?"

"If that were only all of it!" Fudge countered. "There were at least two people with the Professor on this mystery voyage. One was a Mister Remus Lupin, who had served a term as a teacher at Hogwarts - despite the fact that he is a werewolf."

Constantine smiled indulgently at that. "Sir, a true werewolf changes involuntarily at each full moon. The stresses involved with that render them nearly unemployable. If the man were an animagus..."

"No, no, no," Fudge insisted. "His nature was discovered by the students themselves, and the man fled before he could be hunted down by the furious parents whose children had been exposed to such danger. And now, he is said to have been in the company of Professor Snape... and one other. The third companion was none other than Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Think of it! Sending Harry Potter to South America with one teacher and a werewolf for company. And then losing him! Harry Potter is no more to be found than is Severus Snape. And it's all Dumbledore's fault. I want to make this public, loud and clear. Albus Dumbledore called a werewolf back into his service in order to send Harry Potter to South America in his company. And then he lost them! Visualize this: 'Dumbledore Loses Boy Who Lived – Harry Potter Presumed Dead.' Now, that's a headline.

Deckard Constantine remained silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but filled with conviction. "That would not be wise, Sir."

Fudge stared at his Chief of Staff as though the man had slapped him. "What? Nonsense! Why not?"

"Because it's you saying it. I don't mean that we should keep the situation secret. Nor that we should allow Dumbledore to announce it first, putting his own interpretation on it. You could feed this information to someone else, and have them make it public - the aurors who originally uncovered the facts would be ideal. But you do not want to lionize the Boy Who Lived. The reason for that is simple. The importance of the Boy Who Lived lies in his relationship with He Who Must Not Be Named. For a long list of very good reasons, we have maintained the position for over a decade and a half that He Who Must Not Be Named was so thoroughly defeated that he was no longer a threat to the nation - and so should no longer be a concern of the government. The more important you say that Harry Potter is, the more dangerous He Who Must Not Be Named must be. The point may have been moot a short time ago. But now that He Who Must Not Be Named seems to be active once again, lionizing Harry Potter, thereby emphasizing the danger posed by He Who Must Not Be Named makes your own policies of the past years seem... wrong."

Minister Fudge laughed, stepped forward and slapped Constantine on the shoulder. "You're a good Chief of Staff, Deckard... but that attitude shows why you'll never be elected to high office. People's memories are short. They remember that, all during the years in which Death Eater activity was nearly nil, I refused to rise to being baited with all the 'Dark Lord rising' rumors that went around from time to time. And now that there's a threat again, I'll be the one to respond to it. Unfortunately, one of my most appropriate tools has been stolen from me by Albus Dumbledore. So he's the villain in this piece. And who will be the hero? Reluctantly, I will have to be the hero, Deckard. Because the hero we expected has been lost. And what better kind of hero is there than an absent one? Dead is best, but missing and presumed dead will do. I can say all the good things I want to say about the Boy Who Lived, for two good reasons: one, since he's missing, he won't be acting stupidly in the public eye to make my statements seem inappropriate. And two, since he's missing, he won't be around to take any of the spotlight away from me as I take his place as the leader of the fight against You Know Who. So I need a script to follow when the interviewer shows up later today. Paint a word picture, Deckard, and make it beautiful. Harry Potter, the Hero of... well, you know what to do. And make sure you make Dumbledore look like the traitor who destroyed our nation's best hope of defending itself. You'll see, Deckard. This will pay off handsomely when the vote is counted in November."

-

Just outside of Constantine's office was a large room containing dozens of file cabinets. And while it was true that there were several paths to a career in the Ministry, it was also true that most of those paths passed through that room, very early in every potential bureaucrat's career. Filing things away, fetching things that had been filed, then filing them back where they had been was the Ministry's equivalent to an Eastern monk's cutting wood and carrying water. As Fudge ranted at Constantine, demanding a speech to lionize - or even cannonize - the Boy Who Lived, and repeatedly insisting that the speech also drive home the story of the Minister's own illustrious political career, one of the young workers laboring over the files nudged his neighbor and whispered, "Hey, Ollie. You hear all of that?"

"Can't help but hear it," groused the slightly older and more experienced worker, also whispering so as not to attract the attention of the powerful people in the next room.

"What's he on about?" the younger man asked.

Oliver Moore gawked at his companion in disbelief. "Stanley! You don't know the story of Harry Potter?"

Stanley hissed in derision. "Go on. I know all that. It's the rest of the rant that's baffling. How long has Fudge been Minister?"

Oliver grinned wickedly. "About five years."

Stanley raised an eyebrow. "He talks like he built the bloody place."

"And sometimes, he acts like he believes it, as well," Oliver confirmed with an emphatic nod.

Stanley looked worriedly toward Constantine's office. "He's lost it, then?"

Oliver sighed and shook his head. "Just do your job. Ignore the office-holders. They're all insane. You'd have to be barking to want their worries, anyway."

The two men laughed agreeably - though very quietly. Each grabbed the files he needed and hustled off to do the real work of governing wizarding Great Britain.

-

The Fudge interview was front-page material in the Prophet the next day. Early in the morning, Hogwarts students saw the headline "Boy Who Lived Missing and Presumed Dead." There were a few snickers caused by that presumption - Gregory Goyle felt a surge of exultation at learning that Vincent Crabbe would be unable to recruit Harry Potter into the Death Eaters organization any time soon... or ever, if the Prophet's dire predictions were any indication. And, predictably, there were some students who simply didn't care.

Most of the Hogwarts student population did care, however, and they were not pleased in the least.

Ginny Weasley saw the headline by looking over Colin Creevey's shoulder as he read in the Gryffindor common room. She ran up the stairs to her room, sobbing. Hermione Granger had seen her copy of the newspaper earlier than any of the other Gryffindors, but she was determined to read all the way through the article... and then mentally edit out the most obvious exaggerations added by the Daily Prophet's editorial staff... before saying anything to anyone else. Once she had finished reading and judging what she had read, she was very worried. She tossed the newspaper aside, but before she could say anything to anyone, Colin Creevey's voice rang out through the common room. "Are we going to allow this to happen?" he shouted, gathering together everyone who had seen the story that morning - and startling all of those who had not. Hermione could see that the mood in the common room was turning ugly, and that there was sure to be some trouble soon if something weren't done about it. She rose from her favorite overstuffed chair and very quietly left through the portrait hole in search of Ron.

She hadn't seen much of Ron... she hadn't seen him at all, really... since she had last spoken to him on the train. When he had avoided her on the horseless carriage ride from the Hogwarts Express to the castle, she had simply thought she would see him in class the next day, or soon thereafter. As it turned out, she was quite surprised to find how completely different two schedules for two sixth-year Gryffindors could be. It made sense: both she and Ron had passed their O.W.L.s, and the last two years of school were intended to focus on the students' specialities. From what Hermione could tell from Ron's schedule, he really was planning on becoming an auror. Hermione herself did not know quite what she would do professionally - but from her class schedule, magical research seemed a good guess. She had the maximum allowable load of academics, and as many classes that at least touched on magical theory as she could find among Hogwarts' offerings. So she and Ron spent their entire class schedule attending separate classes.

But the kind of avoidance Ron had been practicing bordered on the obsessive. On several occasions, Hermione had seen Ron's back retreating up the stairs toward his room in the boys' section of Gryffindor Tower as she had entered the common room. When it happened once, she had thought that she had just missed him, and that she would catch him the next time they were in the common room together. But every time Hermione entered the common room when Ron was there, he was leaving by the time she got through the portrait hole. How had he known she was coming? Did he keep some kind of charm that sounded an alarm if she were approaching? Hermione wasn't certain, but she was very suspicious of the way Ron could always be travelling away from her at full speed every time she was about to encounter him.

The common room was not the only example.

Hermione had spotted Ron leaving the Great Hall just as she was coming in; had seen him turning away around a far corner as she had entered a hallway, and had seen him dashing out of the castle just as she was about to descend the stairs leading to the entrance hall. And up until today, she had been content to allow him to play his game. But today's news was too important to allow the two of them to act this way. Hermione had always known that if she really wanted to talk to Ron, all she really had to do was to get into his way as he was going to class. She walked quickly to the corridor that Ron would have to take to get to his first class, and the boy practically walked into her without noticing. He startled sharply when she called his name from less than two feet in front of him. He stopped walking and stared at her. He said nothing, keeping his face as blank as he could. Behind his unreacting mask, however, his heart pounded, he felt out of breath, and the room suddenly seemed far too hot.

Hermione had seen Ron's wooden-face pose too many times to pay it much attention at that moment. If he wanted to save himself from embarrassment, she could understand that. But she wanted his thoughts and opinions, and more importantly, Harry needed their help. "I suppose you've seen the newspaper today?"

Ron's heart sank. 'At least she didn't ask me if I'd read today's bloody assignment,' he thought. 'But wouldn't you know, if Hermione had something to ask me, it would be about whether I had read something.' "No," he said out loud, his voice dull and flat.

"It says Harry is missing, and presumed dead."

"Harry...?" Ron repeated stupidly, not following the change of subject.

"Harry Potter?" Hermione snapped, her voice filled with impatience. "Our friend? Your best friend, so you said. We haven't seen him. He got lost. He's presumed dead."

Ron was, in some distant part of his mind, quite disturbed by this news. But dominating his thoughts was the image of Hermione - filled with energy, fired with emotion. Years before, Ron had thought of Hermione as a dumpy little girl, lost in books. But the dumpiness had become curves, and her intellectualism had developed into a fiery righteousness that was pure Gryffindor. She was always most attractive when she was inspired by a cause, no matter how unappealing the actual cause may have been. Ron could see no point in 'freeing' the house elves, for example, but when Hermione gave one of her impassioned speeches on the subject, Ron had been captivated, and could only wish that some of that passion had been turned toward him. And then it had been... for a while. And then it hadn't... He realized that he was just standing there while Hermione waited for a reply. As much to buy himself time to gather his thoughts as to gain information, he asked, "What happened?"

Hermione's mouth pressed into a hard line, an expression of her impatience with Ron's slow responses. When she answered him, though, her voice had lost some of its edge - an indication that she realized that Ron was at least trying to catch up to current events. "Harry went to South America with Professor Snape to search for potion ingredients. They rented a boat, and when the time came for the boat to be returned, they didn't bring it back. Aurors have wanted to question Professor Snape about something since before term started, but they haven't been able to find him, so they think that he's still in the Amazon jungle somewhere. They think Harry's with him. And Remus Lupin, who went with them, hasn't turned up either. So Minister Fudge thinks that Harry's probably dead. Oh, and he says it's all Headmaster Dumbledore's fault, though, coming from Fudge, that's a worthless opinion."

Ron's eyes lost some of their glaze, and he dropped the blank mask from his face. Now that he had some information to consider, the painful presence of his ex-girlfriend... and the possibility that his best friend might be dead... transformed from emotional anguish to a problem to be solved. He thought a moment, then met Hermione's eyes, his own eyes filled with certainty. "None of that makes sense," he stated flatly. "Harry told us about Snape having to watch over him this summer, and he brought Remus Lupin to the Burrow with him... but even if Snape was locked on to Harry with chains, I don't believe he would go hunting for potion ingredients taking Harry along. Harry may have passed the potions classes, but he was never brilliant at it, and Snape was always giving him hell. And so far as I know, Snape and Lupin hated each other. I don't care if Dumbledore cursed the lot of them, if those three had gotten into a river boat together, they all would have been dead, and not from some outside danger - they would have killed each other. And you say that aurors wanted to question Snape - I'll bet he didn't want to be questioned. And so he disappeared. Where Harry and Lupin are is anyone's guess. But unless all three of them were feeling particularly suicidal, there's no way they went to South America to go hunting together."

Hermione nodded once, a short, hard motion. "That's what I thought. We have to see the Headmaster."

Ron started to protest, "Oh, yeah. That'll be easy..." But Hermione grabbed his hand and started toward Dumbledore's office, dragging Ron along behind her.

"Let's go," she called back over her shoulder, after Ron was already stumbling along to prevent being pulled over by Hermione's insistent dragging. Ron sighed, letting himself be led along the corridor, but he had little hope of actually getting into Dumbledore's office. For a Gryffindor, there was a strict procedure to be followed if a student wished to see the Headmaster. Ron suspected it was very similar for each of the Houses, but he knew the Gryffindor rules by heart. First, the student wishing to see Professor Dumbledore had to go to the Gryffindor Head of House, Professor McGonagall, to request an appointment. Then, Professor McGonagall would inquire as to the nature of the matter the student wished to discuss with the Headmaster. Then, she would usually take care of the problem herself, or - in the case of an unreasonable request - simply deny the student an appointment. The process was simple, but time-consuming. And it almost never led to the student being allowed to see Dumbledore. Simply presenting oneself at the Headmaster's office and attempting to walk in almost never worked. Dumbledore's office was protected by a system that demanded a password to get past the gargoyle and up the disappearing staircase. Nonetheless, it was Dumbledore's office toward which Hermione was rushing, and Ron decided to simply follow along for the moment and suggest alternatives once the Headmaster's door had proven to be locked against them. There seemed to be no stopping Hermione when she was this agitated.

When the couple arrived at the place in which the Headmaster's guardian gargoyle usually sat, they saw its place was vacant, the marble column already extended into a stairwell. Ron looked at the unexpected arrangement suspiciously, but Hermione didn't hesitate, starting up the stairs without breaking stride. When she had negotiated the stairway, she stepped into Dumbledore's office, only to find the Headmaster standing in front of his desk, smiling expectantly her way.

"Ah... Miss Granger. I was expecting you. Marshmallow bunny?" The Headmaster held out a dish containing a pile of ridiculously large, puffy white marshmallow candies in the shapes of rabbits. Each one looked large enough to be a filling dessert all by itself. Ron was tempted to take one, but Hermione said "No, thank you," quite firmly, and the Headmaster allowed the candy dish to float back to its place on his desk. He smiled at Ron. "And Mister Weasley. Welcome."

The Headmaster's slow speech and measured movements were usually very effective at disrupting the rhythm of a visitor who felt his concern should be treated as an urgent emergency. Dumbledore's kindly voice and twinkling eyes had done quite well at putting nervous students at ease, and helping to relax angry parents. Hermione had paid close attention to those techniques over the past five years, and she did not allow them to affect her. "I know you must be aware of today's news, and that Minister Fudge is blaming you for it."

Dumbledore smiled even more broadly, as his eyes twinkled brilliantly. "Ah..."

"Before you say anything," Hermione interrupted, holding up a hand, "I want you to know that, without any input on my part, the Gryffindors..." Hermione paused. Something had registered very strongly just below her conscious notice. Dumbledore had done... something. Blink? Whatever it was, the action was not in character for him at all. The Headmaster was always - no matter how vaporous or ethereal he presented himself - in complete control at all times. He usually seemed to know what was going to happen before it occurred. Even when Hermione had used the Time Turner, Dumbledore had given her advice on what she should do, as though he were aware of events that he had not yet lived through. But on this particular occasion, Hermione had actually surprised him.

Some of the legends about Merlin said that the famous wizard had lived his entire life regressing through time, remembering things in the future, uncertain of the past. The most literal readings of the story had Merlin waking up from death as a very old man and becoming progressively younger until he was stuffed back into his mother's womb as a newborn. Hermione had thought that such a life would be horrible, that the wizard would have no choice except to constantly labor to bring about the prerequisites for the things he remembered happening in the future. As a young girl, she had thought she understood the symbolism of the story, though. She believed that the tale was meant to caution everyone - not just wizards - that choices made throughout life imposed their own limits, restrictions and consequences. That the repercussions of one's own actions could make anyone feel as though life were as prescribed and limited as Merlin's own backward life.

And then she had met Dumbledore, and had wondered how he could possibly know so much about what was to come. Could he be living in reverse, like Merlin? Or had he somehow divorced himself from the strictures of time, becoming able to move back and forth at will? Either thought was chilling, and carried with it a certain amount of horror.

But she had surprised Albus Dumbledore. She had said something, approached him in such a way, as he had not expected. She met his eyes, and in a moment, the two of them shared an acknowledgement of Dumbledore's humanity, and Hermione's unpredictable creativity.

Then the moment was over, too swiftly for Ron to have recognized it. Hermione continued with her appeal. "...The Gryffindors are all very upset. They will likely riot if nothing at all is done. Some students will want nothing more than an acknowledgement that you... that the whole staff, but especially you... take this seriously. Most will want some kind of action - a search... I don't know what else. But a few - and I have heard them talking in the common room - will settle for nothing less than finding Harry dead or alive. That's why I came here. I have no doubt that you know more about all of this than Minister Fudge does. You may even know that Harry is all right, or even where he is. But unless you tell the whole school something, the Gryffindors... and who knows, maybe a lot of the other students as well... will be very dissatisfied. And that could cause the kinds of disruptions no one wants."

"Or..." Dumbledore's smile became so wide, he appeared to Ron to be truly demented. "...at least that our... finest scholars... do not want, eh?" The Headmaster's smile faded, and both his visitors thought the man looked tired. "I know some things. But I don't know enough. I do not believe Harry is dead, but I cannot assure you with any certainty that he is all right. Nor do I know where he is. If the student body demands to see concrete physical evidence of the continued existence of the Boy Who Lived, I am afraid... I shall have to disappoint them. And if they feel that they will be able to demand action on the part of this school's staff that is more properly within the purview of government... or if they believe that hooliganism will gain them positive attention, they may well be quite surprised at the attention they do receive."

Ron had thought it better to let Hermione do the talking in Dumbledore's office, but hearing this, he could not keep silent. "Sir, if you say 'government,' you're talking about the Ministry, and ultimately, Minister Fudge. I don't want to say anything bad about the whole MInistry... my Dad works for the Ministry, I know there are a lot of good people there. But... Fudge is a git." Hermione rolled her eyes, and Dumbledore stifled a chuckle, under cover of clearing his throat warningly. But Ron was unwilling to let either one believe he was only joking. "I mean it," he insisted. "Fudge put Umbridge here last year. He's denied the obvious fact that You-Know-Who is still alive for as long as I can remember. He's done a lot of ugly things that I know about, and I don't pay any attention to what the government does!" Ron blushed bright red. "I mean... maybe I should. Be a good citizen and all... But this is Fudge we're talking about. He's not going to do anything to help. He's probably glad so long as he thinks Harry's dead!"

"I think that may be a bit harsh," Dumbledore said, though his voice was sympathetic. "But I do agree with you that I doubt we will get much help from Minister Fudge regarding this particular disappearance. Mister Weasley, Miss Granger, I appreciate your coming to me about this. I will..." the Headmaster gazed off into space for a moment. "I'm not sure what I will do. Make a statement, most likely, and perhaps..." He seemed lost in thought for a short time, then met his visitors' eyes once again. "Thank you. And I believe you both have classes you are probably late for, am I right?" Ron and Hermione both nodded. "Then take these." Dumbledore produced two notes. They were excuses for tardiness, made out to the proper teachers, one for Hermione and one for Ron. They both thanked him and left the office. Once they had reached the bottom of the spiral staircase, the marble column began to rotate once again, and within seconds, the guardian gargoyle was back in place.

Hermione started toward her class, staring at the note in her hand and wondering once again how prescient the Headmaster truly was. Ron watched her as she took several steps, captivated by the graceful motion of her hips as she moved. Then he called out, moving quickly to catch up. "Hermione! Wait." She turned toward him and their eyes met. Ron forgot everything he was about to say.

Hermione raised an eyebrow in response to his silence. "Yes?" she prompted.

Ron struggled to concentrate, to force out words that would make some sense. "What's your hurry?" he managed, then realized exactly what Hermione would say, and wished that he could take his question back. Too late.

"My hurry is that I am already late to class."

"But we have these," Ron protested, holding up his note, hurrying to Hermione's side, standing close... possibly close enough that she might remember the times, not so long ago, when he had held her close to him, squeezed her tightly, run his hands over her, tasted her mouth. "Don't we need to talk?"

"Do we?" Hermione snapped, eyes flashing. "I thought you had a different opinion, these days." She glared at Ron, but he wasn't fighting with her, only looking helplessly at her, clearly in pain. She took a moment to force herself toward calm. She waited, giving Ron a stellar opportunity for one of his angry, insulting statements, or even one of his hyperbolic tirades. He said nothing, but merely stood there, waiting for her to offer another comment or walk away. She looked at him for a long moment, taking in the long, athletic body and the brilliant red hair. He wasn't handsome, but he was cute, in his own way. Strong, yet supple. A hopelessly inept kisser, but a very eager one... and he had learned what she most liked and what she most detested about kissing very swiftly. There could well be hope for him, in the right hands. He hadn't been a bad boyfriend, really. Just not a good one for her. "All right," she sighed, and saw the hope rekindle in his eyes. She would have to extinguish that swiftly. "We can talk, if you really want to. At lunch. Or after last class. In the common room, or the great hall, or out in front of the castle. No place private. It won't be that kind of 'discussion.' But we can't talk now. I have to be in class because..." Hermione laughed, knowing that Ron already knew the answer, but knowing that she had to say it out loud before he would accept it. "Because there's a class. Of mine. In session. And I'm not there. I'm interested in what we'll be doing today. And every day. We've already passed our O.W.L.s, Ron. We should be taking only those classes we're really eager to get to, really interested in. That's what I'm doing anyway. So: lunch? Or after?"

"After," Ron said, attempting to sound off-hand, knowing he sounded desperate, instead. But his ex-girlfriend smiled at him, agreed to meet him on the lawn in front of the castle, and hurried off to class, looking so appealing as she walked away. Ron sighed and looked back at the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office. "What the bloody hell did she need me for, anyway?" he muttered to himself, and slouched off to class.

-

The Daily Prophet, with its wild speculations about his disappearance and death had, once again, not reached Godric's Hollow, so - blissfully unaware of his friends' distress - Harry spent the entire day practicing magic more intensely than he had ever practiced in his entire life. No matter how he tried, how many suggestions Remus offered, or how much magical theory Snape presented to help him, Harry found that he was unable to stop time as he had done the previous day. After a dozen separate sets of attempts to recreate the previous day's temporal effects, Snape called off the experiment.

"There is more important work in which you could be engaged," he said, with obvious disappointment. "You need to concentrate on improving and controlling the powers you do possess, rather than pursuing a fluke that may never work again. But don't worry - most of your significant progress has come by accident. We must take advantage of that. In order to maximize your chance of having another unexpected incidence of superlatively powerful magic, you must use as much magic as possible, as constantly - as unceasingly - as you can. Start over with the experiment which led to your time-stoppage yesterday. Try once more to control the stone. But this time..." Snape's grin may have been meant to be encouraging, but to Harry, the potion master's lips curling over his bared teeth made the man seem more threatening than ever. "...This time, use magic for everything. Don't turn a doorknob, open the door with magic. Don't sweep up the plaster your stone knocked out of the wall, use magic to repair the damage. Don't walk... use magic to move yourself."

Harry had been steeling himself to return to the stone-control experiment, taking deep breaths, rolling his shoulders to loosen his muscles, concentrating on remembering what he had done the previous day. But at Snape's last statement, Harry stopped all of that and stared at the potions professor disbelievingly. "What?"

Snape glared at the boy impatiently. "You are a quiddich seeker, are you not?" Harry immediately agreed. "And you have been called an exemplary broom handler for at least five years, is that not correct?" Somewhat more modestly, Harry acknowledged that as well. "So you must be familiar with the precept that the broom does not fly... the wizard does."

"Maybe in theory," Harry countered, putting a Snape-like sneer into the last word. "But then, why is a Firebolt so much better than... what's in that closet?"

Snape shook his head pityingly. "Because the competition broom has been shaped by wizards who understand how magic flows from the user through the wood. Just as your wand focuses your magical energy, your broom functions to direct your flying ability. And just as you have shown us all that wands are a crutch that a wizard may cast away to perform wandless magic, so you should be able to cast off the crutch of your broomstick, and perform broomless flying."

"Oh. Um. Well." Harry stood there, unable to imagine how he might begin to fly without a broom.

"It... uh... it would be great to... you know... just fly," he stammered uncertainly. "But the first thing I do when I do fly - with a broomstick, I mean - is to call my broom up to my hand." Harry held his hand out over the bare floor and looked back up at Snape in frustration.

"And, when you draw your broom up into your grasp," Snape said slowly, as though giving simple directions to an idiot, "are you yet flying?"

Harry scowled. "Well, no."

"Then what do you do?" Snape inquired with exaggerated kindliness.

"Step over. Sit on the stick."

"And when you are aboard the shaft, do your feet still touch the Earth?"

"Um..." Harry had to consider that one for a bit. From his very first flight, he had been able to leap onto his broom and take off in a single motion. He thought of the opening of a quiddich match, when both teams were still on the ground. There was a moment when everyone was astride their brooms, but had not yet taken flight to begin the game. And sometimes, if the command to 'Kick Off' was slow in coming, both teams could be stalled with their butts on their sticks, but their feet still on the turf. "Yes...?" Harry murmured as the considered. Then, more definitely, "Yes. There is a time that... Yes. On the broom, but feet still on the ground."

"And at that moment, you are still not flying?"

Harry was puzzled at how such a simple thing could be so hard to explain. "No... that is, I'm not flying... but the broom is. I'm not holding it up, but it's not falling. It's usually pressing up against me."

"So really, there is no difference between your state at that time and the state in which you are right now."

"Maybe not," Harry admitted, still resistant to Snape's implication. "But I have a broom under me. And it's flying."

"And when you kick off from the ground?"

"The broom rises and carries me..."

"Aa!" Snape barked, index finger raised accusingly. "Before you continue that thought, tell me, Mister Potter: Can you perform an outside loop?" Harry looked puzzled. Snape sighed and explained, looking very put-upon to be detailing such a basic concept to an expert flier. "Let's say you are flying high above the quiddich pitch in a standard position - you astride your broom, moving forward. You turn downward, leaning forward to dive toward the ground, but rather than continuing to lose altitude, you keep turning, pulling your broomstick through a circle, so that you are momentarily head down beneath the broom, then rising toward your previous elevation, then back in the position from which you began your maneuver. An outside loop. Can you perform that maneuver?"

"Yes," Harry said cautiously. "Though it's a lot easier to do the other way."

"An inside loop. Yes, it would be," Snape agreed, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a wry smile. "Tell me this, then: Can you perform a barrel roll?" Harry shot Snape an irritated look, as though convinced the man were making up terms just to be difficult. Snape countered with a superior smirk. "Barrel roll. You are flying high above the pitch exactly as in our previous example. You lean hard to the side, but make the broom lean with you as you continue to fly straight forward. You continue your lean until you are momentarily upside down, then keep leaning in the same direction until you return to your upright position. A barrel roll. Can you perform that maneuver?"

Harry recognized the move from countless quiddich practices. It was a standard practice for dodging bludgers, and could even be done with no forward motion at all, though that was usually only necessary for keepers. "Sure. An Ulfnar Twist. I can do that."

"And when you perform your Ulfnar Twist, Mister Potter... where do you feel the pressure of the stick?"

Harry's eyes lost focus as he tried to remember the exact feeling of the maneuver. It was particularly difficult to put quiddich moves into words because for the past five years Harry had been coached to play the game and fly his broom with his guts and with his heart. Thinking too much hurt the team by making players hesitant and uncertain, according to every quiddich expert Harry had ever spoken with. Explaining a broom twist in terms other than 'pull - zoom - go' or some other emotionally-based coaching shorthand seemed wrong, almost as though he were trying to jinx his own performance. "I feel it in my hands, mostly. When you're twisting in the air, you direct your flight through your hands - the rate of twist, the amount of forward thrust..." he shrugged, knowing that his explanation had been inadequate.

"But you are not hanging from the broom by your hands," Snape insisted. "In fact, far from hanging off of the broom, you are sitting astride it when you are upside down just as firmly as when your head is above your heels. I have seen you perform such a 'Twist,' Mister Potter, and while doing it, you have not bent your knees in order to grasp the shaft with your calves nor hang from it by your knees. You may be holding it tightly between your thighs, but from the ground, it certainly seems as though the shaft is pressing quite consistently upon your bottom."

"But it's all so fast," Harry protested. "How can you see what's happening in a Twist or a... Loop?... when you're so far away and the move is over in a fraction of a second?"

Snape's smile of triumph showed clearly that he felt Harry had just raised the point that would prove the professor's argument. "It is the very speed of those maneuvers that confirms my hypothesis. When in an inside loop, as you observed, your bottom will be pressed hard into the shaft. But in an outside loop, or in what you call a Twist, your centripetal force should fling you away from the shaft and out into space, no matter how intricately you turned or twisted. That this does not happen is demonstrated in every quiddich match. This proves that you are not riding the shaft, the shaft is riding you."

Remus, who had been listening to the entire exchange very quietly, could no longer contain his amusement. A stifled laugh escaped his lips with a rude sounding 'pfffpt.'

Both Harry and Severus looked toward the werewolf, waiting for some further comment. He shook his head and waved away their attention.

"If you have something to add, Mister Lupin..." Snape sneered.

"No, it's nothing. Really," Remus said as he tried to hold back the chuckling that continued to shake his shoulders.

Snape's expression became a hard grimace. With enough volume to make Harry jump, he demanded, "What?"

Remus could see there was no avoiding having to explain himself. With a look of genuine admiration as well as amusement, he told Snape, "Professor, if you ever consider a career in public speaking outside of the classroom, I can guarantee you an audience of gay men who would love to hear you lecture on quiddich." Snape blinked, but otherwise held perfectly still, his face absolutely blank. Remus smiled gently. "I mean, seriously, Professor... 'no matter how hard you twist and turn, the shaft rides you...' With your dramatic voice, you could sell recordings, and I'd wager galleons against butterbeer it would get played at parties."

Harry had seen Snape so furious that spittle had flown from his mouth as he raged. The boy had also seen Snape express his anger coldly, with cutting sarcasm and hurtful insult. He had seen Snape react with impatience, with disdain and with contempt. But Harry had never seen Snape react quite like this. Could the potions professor actually be embarrassed?

Stiffly, looking very uncomfortable, Snape muttered, "Yes. Very amusing. I'll keep that in mind for when my teaching career is over. Which, considering I have not turned up for class this year, might already by the case. I suppose I shall find out after Halloween... if I should happen to survive." He fell silent, glowering at Remus.

Harry broke the uncomfortable silence. "I guess I should go practice with that stone, now."

"No!" Snape commanded. "Come outside." He started toward the door and looked back over his shoulder to see Harry standing uncertainly right where he had been. "You may walk. Come on."

Severus, Remus and Harry all walked out into the front yard. Remus strolled across the lawn, taking in the riot of fall color on the surrounding trees, and marvelled once again at the lack of traffic on such an inviting stretch of road as that which wound pleasantly past Godric's Hollow. When he looked back toward his companions, Harry was standing lightly on his toes, leaning forward slightly, knees bent, arms extended in front of him, as though he were pantomiming riding a broomstick. Snape was standing next to the boy, giving instructions. Suddenly, Snape ordered, 'Kick Off!' and with a deceptively tiny twitch of his foot, Harry was airborne.

Remus leapt into the air himself, elated. Seeing the cub breaking gravity's bonds without benefit of a broomstick beneath him was breathtaking, exhilarating. He wanted to shout out a cheer. Then the cheer died in his throat. As he landed from his excited leap, he ran toward Harry. The boy was still airborne, but clearly in trouble.

Harry had never had this much trouble when flying a broom. The first flight he had ever attempted aboard a broomstick had been under his firm control from the moment he left the ground. Now, however, he had experienced one of the classic mishaps that so frequently befell beginners. As soon as he had risen to a height of only a few feet above the ground, he had flipped over, legs pointing ridiculously skyward as his head dangled mere inches from the grass-covered lawn. He was still moving forward, and while he knew his speed was actually very slow, the proximity of his face to the ground made his progress seem nightmarishly swift. He shifted his weight, trying to heave himself back upright without any success. With annoyance, he remembered seeing some beginning flyers who had gotten into this same predicament and had tried to extricate themselves from it with the same kind of futile moves. He thought it may have seemed vaguely amusing to him back then. It was not funny at that particular moment. Fittingly, it was his long years of practice on a broom that saved him from disaster. He was flying along, struggling to reposition himself, hardly paying any attention to where he was going, when his subconscious mind screamed "TREE" insistently enough to grab his awareness. Without thinking, Harry pushed forward and away, mimicking the motions he would make to direct a broomstick. The motion would have sent him hurtling down if he had been flying upright. Instead, it turned his path upward just before he flew into a thick, old oak growing near the edge of his property. He shot upward through the tree's crown, breaking small branches and scattering its brilliantly colored leaves. He pushed forward and away again, continuing to imagine a broomstick handle in his grasp, and his loop continued into a full one hundred eighty degrees, turning him back upright and sending him flying back the way he had come.

Which is when he first fully felt the absence of a broom beneath him.

Harry could almost feel the magic streaming from him, but with no broom to direct the energy, he had no control over where the force went. He could visualize his power pouring out into the atmosphere, and knew that he had to focus that power in order to gain command of his speed and direction. And then he was spinning in three directions at once and falling fast. Harry was dimly aware that, if he had seen anyone else doing this, he would be able to tell whether the flier was performing a 'falling leaf' or a 'death spiral.' Both were recognized moves, favored by beaters who needed to escape close combat in the air while avoiding bludgers being slammed toward them. Aboard a broom, a good flier could pull out of either maneuver and continue playing. Without a broomstick to help shape his magical thrust, Harry was lost, unable to get his bearings, and afraid that any effort he made to reverse his fall would slam him into the ground more forcefully than he already was going to be slammed.

Remus had run toward Harry when the boy had flipped upside down right after takeoff, he had turned to run toward the oak tree once he saw that Harry was about to fly directly into it, he had spun around to follow Harry's flight once the boy had managed his full turn, and when Harry began to fall, Remus sprinted to a spot near to where the cub would land. He raised his wand, hoping he had enough power to stop Harry's dive. "Wingardium..." he began, and stopped in shock as Snape pulled his wand arm down.

"Don't," Snape ordered.

Remus glared at Snape, and growled, "He'll die. Let go."

Snape held Remus' arm in a surprisingly powerful grip, his long, thin fingers digging into the werewolf's flesh. "This is how he learns everything," the potions master said. "Everything," he insisted with grim intensity.

BANG!

Both men turned at the explosive sound. Remus stared at the ground. His first impression was that Harry had exploded upon striking the Earth, and he was astounded that the impact had not left a crater. But Snape was looking up, grim triumph on his face. Remus followed Snape's gaze to see Harry, nearly one hundred meters in the air, still falling. "He apparated..." Remus said, amazed.

"Or something like it. So far as I know, he has never been introduced to the accepted methods of apparation. If we could study what the boy has done, we may well discover an alternative to standard apparating - possibly even something that would allow us to appear within the warded areas of Hogwarts itself." The frustration at being unable to apply standard magical study to the phenomenon of Harry's magic was etched into Snape's face.

That, at least, Remus could understand. When the cub's wild magic had expressed itself in defensive explosions and high-powered blasts directed against images of his hated enemies, Remus had thought that it would be easy to quantify what Harry was doing in terms of standard magical measurements, and codify what he had accomplished in terms of standard magical practice. Perhaps Harry would have a new spell named after him, the Potter Blast, or the Boy Who Lived Shield, for example. But as Remus had observed Harry's magic develop, it had become increasingly clear that this was not a simple matter of a new spell - or even a new set of spells - or a mere wandless technique for casting spells. Harry was utilizing an entirely new way of accessing the basic stuff of magic itself - a method that might make standard spell-casting obsolete.

As they had worked together with the boy, Remus had not wanted to discuss some of his ideas with Snape, because he knew some of how Severus felt about pure-blooded wizard lines and the wildly varying levels of power expressed by the current wizard population. But an idea that had begun to form in Remus' mind when Harry blasted the image of Voldemort in the basement of the Malfoy Manor had taken full shape when Harry seemed to have stopped the passage of time, and the idea would not be stop nagging at him. If Harry survived (as Remus believed he would); if Harry defeated his enemies (Remus believed that neither Voldemort nor Fudge stood a chance... and that Dumbledore was vulnerable); if Harry could stand the pressure that would be brought to bear upon him (and Remus believed there was no one more likely to be able to do so than this cub); and most importantly - if Harry found a wife... a lover... Hell, if hero-worshipping women threw themselves at him, it didn't matter... if he procreated; then soon there would be a three-tiered system for categorizing human beings: muggles, obsolete wizards and Potter Mages.

Wizarding families had, for uncounted generations, taken advantage of a certain 'safety period' built in to their offspring. Wizard babies could be mistaken for muggles. Wizard children could be impressed and amazed at their parents' abilities without being able to emulate them. And wizard adolescents were still denied the privileges of certain magics, such as apparation. With an institution such as Hogwarts to help youngsters through the introduction to their magical abilities, wizarding society could carry on in its sedate, conservative fashion, making few significant changes in the way it conducted its affairs for hundreds of years at a time. Remus suspected that Potter babies would be quite different, that tantrums could lead to fireballs flying out of a crib, and that a baby's fright might cause it to form an impenetrable shield, putting the infant at risk of suffocation. Potter babies would likely have to be taught - as Potter himself was being taught now - how to do everything for themselves with magic as well as with the physical power of their bodies. Parents who had never had to live through such an infancy would likely be baffled as to how to help their children - or even how to ensure their survival. A baby placed 'safely' in a crib, unable to crawl out, might discover the power of flight, instead. And how could a parent convince a toddler that it was important to learn to walk when the child could hover effortlessly? But there would be no such babies if Harry were to smash himself to jelly on the lawn of Godric's Hollow. As he plummeted, Remus made to raise his wand once again, but Snape held his arm down, still. "Damn it, man, what are you doing?" Remus shouted. "He's falling faster than ever!"

Snape would not relent. With cold intensity, he said, "Did you notice that when he apparated, despite spinning out of control, that he sent himself directly upward in a perfectly straight line?"

Remus, fighting to free his wand arm from Snape's iron grip, did not even consider the argument. All he could hear was Snape calmly speaking while the cub descended like a meteor. "Bullshite!" He struck at Snape's face with his free hand, but Snape dodged the blow. Remus' forearm collided with Snape's shoulder, upsetting both men's balance and sending them stumbling to keep their feet, but not dislodging Snape's grip.

Snape did not return a blow in retaliation. Instead, with undiminished determination, he said "It's true, Wolf. Look. See what happened. When Harry apparated, he did not go sideways, he did not take off at an angle, he did not place himself inside a solid object - such as the ground, immediately below him. He went absolutely straight up."

BANG!

Both men looked up this time, but they had to raise their eyes even further. Over two hundred meters above the ground, Harry Potter appeared. "And see there - he's done it again!" Snape stated with satisfaction. He released Remus, who was concentrating on the tiny-looking form so far up in the air. Then both men jumped as a window exploded on the far side of their house.

Harry was aware that something had saved him from crashing - twice - but he couldn't say what it might have been. He did know that he had suffered more than enough uncontrolled tumbling, however, and despite all of Snape's theories, Harry knew only one way to regain power over his flight. He visualized the kitchen of his parents' home, reached a hand out and shouted, "Accio broom!" The spell felt right, he thought that it had worked, but he fell sickeningly for a long, tense moment before he felt the reassuring impact of wood on his palm. Gripping it desperately, he twisted the simple kitchen sweeper beneath him and immediately felt the maelstrom of magical energy all around him smooth out into a steady, driving stream. He accelerated forward, performed a deliberate twist, then willed himself to stop spinning. He quickly checked his surroundings, discovered which way was up, and how far away the ground was, and in an instant, he was flying smoothly. The broom on which he sat would never replace his firebolt, and he suspected that it might send him crashing into an obstacle if he were to attempt any truly intricate flying. But he was no longer plummeting helplessly. In that sense, this simple straw-tipped stick was more valuable than any competition broom - it had saved his life.

Harry landed gracefully and dismounted from the kitchen broom in a single smooth motion. Smiling confidently, he looked Snape directly in the eye and announced, "That was fun. Care to go with me? We could do it again."

Remus' relief was so great it seemed to pour off of him in waves as he gently cautioned, "You shouldn't do much of anything just yet. You've been spun around a fair amount - it's a wonder you're not complaining of a whiplash in your neck."

Snape made no acknowledgement of Harry's invitation, but instead very quietly asked, "Are you dizzy."

Harry laughed and began to answer. Then his brows drew together and he stood silently, concentrating. Remus stepped forward, thinking the boy was about to faint, but Harry was not suffering from vertigo. Quite the opposite, to his surprise. "No... No, I'm not dizzy. That's... weird." He jumped up and clicked his heels, then extended one arm to his side and unerringly directed his index finger onto his nose. He walked a straight line, then stood in one spot, tilted his head back until he was looking straight upward, and turned around in a small circle. He looked back at Snape suspiciously. "I'm not dizzy at all. How did you know?"

"I didn't. But it makes perfect sense, considering the way your system has been able to shrug off negative effects of late. Your improvised apparation was quite impressive, Mister Potter. Can you apparate into the house?"

"Severus!" Remus protested, his studied habit of polite address forgotten in his outrage at the suggestion.

"Wolf," Snape shot back. "The boy has just apparated twice..." The two men continued to shout at each other, neither one hearing what the other had to say.

"... outside..."

"...over one hundred meters in each case..."

"...in clear air..."

"...to save his own life..."

"...directly away from the biggest obstacle..."

"...in a perfectly straight line..."

"...the worst danger, the ground..."

Harry's voice, dull with disappointment, cut into the argument, bringing it to an abrupt end. "Moot point." Both men waited for him to explain. With a miserable shrug, eyes cast down, he did so. "I tried. I visualized the room I wanted to go to, I tried to force myself there, but nothing happened. I can't remember what I did while I was falling. To me, it was just a quick change in the colors that were spinning around me. And it happened twice. But I honestly have no clue as to what it was that happened. It was just... a lot of green spinning around, then a lot of blue spinning around, and I fell until all I could see was a bunch of green spinning around again, and then there was a lot of blue spinning around. And then I summoned the broom. But now - nothing. I tried. It didn't work." Harry looked up as he finished his statement, and glared angrily at both men. "Why don't you teach me to apparate the way you both can?" he snarled. "I'm supposed to be so damn powerful, why is it that I have to get carried whenever we go anywhere? Maybe if I knew the real way to apparate, I could improvise something from that. Because right now, I have absolutely no idea what I'm supposed to be doing."

Snape stood proudly, his eyes cold as he let the heat of Harry's anger wash past him. "Mister Potter..." he began, in his standard classroom form, but the boy in front of him was out of patience with that sort of presentation.

"Stop it!" Harry commanded. "I'm Harry. You're Severus. He's Remus. Are we supposed to be working together to take over the world, or what? We can't even call each other by our names? It's ridiculous! We're fighting old Tom, and dorky Cornelius, and big, bad Albus. We all know each other, and have done for years, for God's sake! Harry. I'm Harry. Say it. Say it, you cold, inhibited, frustrated old man. Say my name!"

Snape looked down his nose at the boy as though Harry were a particularly unsavory bit of offal adhering to his shoe. In his driest drawl, he replied. "Mist..." But that was as far as he got.

"Aaaugh!" Harry bellowed, throwing his hands up in frustration. Between his arms, a blue glow formed, growing in intensity until Remus had to shut his eyes tightly against the glare. To the werewolf, it was like looking directly at a flash of lightning. But unlike lightning's instant flash and immediate disappearance, this bolt remained until Harry's hands were high above his head, and then leapt away from the boy to streak toward Snape, knocking the man to the ground and sizzling around his body for a long moment before crackling away into the atmosphere.

In an instant, both Harry and Remus were at Snape's side, Remus checking for a pulse, Harry afraid to do anything. Snape had been hit hard, and had clearly suffered pain from the experience, but he was breathing, and almost as soon as the others had arrived, he opened his eyes and began to move. He ignored Remus entirely, allowing the werewolf to help him sit up without acknowledging his presence at all. He looked at Harry and his mouth twitched in an expression that was not quite a sneer, but was far too humorless to be considered a smile. "One would think," he said, his voice hoarse and rough, "that after serving the Opposition for as long as I have, that I would have learned something about dealing with superlatively powerful leaders. If Voldemort says 'Dance,' the Death Eaters do their most enthusiastic steps... or they suffer the Cruciatus. When Pot..." He stopped and very deliberately cleared his throat. "When Harry says, 'Say my name,' we should all respond, 'Yes, Father.'"

Harry scowled. "That wasn't the point of it, and you know it, Professor," he said carefully, slightly emphasizing the last word.

"Oh, no," Snape agreed with saccarine innocence. "The point was that I'm a frustrated old man."

"Well?" Harry met Snape's eyes, not letting his challenge drop.

"That is none of your business, boy," Snape sneered.

"Isn't it?" Harry fumed, eyes flashing again. "I trust my life to you. I let you direct my 'experiments' and my 'practice' and I let you stand by while I nearly crash land and break my neck, and you do nothing but watch it all happen. And that's all because I trust you, and I believe in you, and I think you're the smartest, most competent wizard I've ever seen, and I think you have some idea of what you're doing and what I should be doing and what all of that will get me, and where you'll be when it does. And I think that what you have in mind is a lot like what I have in mind, and what I have in mind boils down to a lot of good happening for a lot of people, and a lot of bad being prevented forever. And if any of that is jeopardized because you're too stuffy to use my name, or because you walk around with a stick up your butt all the time, then it damn well is my business, and I'm going to make sure that you and everyone else around you knows it."

Snape held Harry's eyes with his own. He did not change his expression, he did not blink. But, oddly, Harry heard a distracting sound. A very out-of-place noise that seemed as though it should be familiar, but which was so incongruous, Harry could not believe it. It happened again. It was a human sound... a humorous sound... and it was coming from directly in front of Harry. It came back, stronger, and louder, and it lasted longer. To Harry's complete disbelief, Snape was chuckling. And then it became unmistakable. The potions professor was shaking with mirth, his shoulders twitching, his chest pumping up and down in time to his laughter. And then Snape closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and for the first time in Harry's experience, Severus Snape laughed out loud. Sitting up, supported by the werewolf he had sworn was his bitter enemy until mere months ago, having just been felled by a bolt of magical lightning, and bawled out by a boy who had been, at best, an average student in his class, Snape was laughing, long, hard peals of hilarity.

Harry worried that - as a delayed reaction to the lightning spell - Snape had gone mad. But the Professor met his gaze with a look that bespoke sanity, and in a clear, controlled voice, said, "Welcome, Mister Chief Executive." He laughed again at Harry's bewildered look, then caught his breath and said, "Mis... Harry. If ever I had tried to distill the essence of a good leader's speech to a disappointing employee at a difficult moment, it would have sounded exactly like you sounded only a moment ago. You challenged my statement with which you disagreed. You clearly outlined the salient points of our relationship. You acknowledged my work for you, and complimented those aspects of my performance that you found exemplary. Then you detailed your perception of the problems you believe I have developed, you warned of the consequences should those problems continue, then you declared your intentions, which in this case were to let everyone involved know how you feel, and finally you looked me in the eye to demand that I either accept your statements or respond to them. Bravo. Seriously, your presentation was a bit raw and, frankly, immature. A good leader almost never needs to shout, for one thing. And if you are going to swear, your choice of where to put in a 'damn' should be more shocking. Otherwise, it is more effective to leave the profanity out of your speech altogether. You will also learn that, when you have a staff of adults, all of whom will - at first - be older than you are and more experienced in government, you will have to make some allowance for individuality. Some of your finest lackeys will likely have 'sticks up their butts,' for example. If you learn to use them properly, their social stiffness should present no problem."

Harry waited until he was sure that Snape had finished speaking. Once again, he was astounded at the sheer resilience of the man. As confidently as he could, Harry stated, "My question stands. Are we working together to take over the world or not?"

Snape smiled, and some of his familiar sarcasm had obviously returned to him. "First, we are planning to remove a particularly loathsome dark wizard from our world. Then, we are going to try to gain control of the government of wizarding Great Britain. Then, through alliances and negotiation, we shall attempt to influence the rest of the magic-using world. There may well come a time when worldwide acclaim draws our little triumvirate into global prominence. But I believe that such a goal can be best achieved by focusing on each step as we take it."

Harry rose and extended a hand to Snape, who pretended not to notice it, and stood on his own. The three potential world conquerors went back to their house, Harry taking the lead. "I think I'll go back to that move-the-stone experiment," he mused.

"I believe we all might be better served if you attempted to repair the window you broke as you summoned your broom," Snape suggested.

"Right," Harry sighed. "Window first, then wall repair, then back to the stone. Full day?"

"Not if you're successful on first try," Snape pointed out.

"Right," Harry sighed again and went to fix the window.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Much later, when Harry and Snape returned to the kitchen from their exercise with the stone, Remus was sitting at the kitchen table staring bleakly into space. Snape's voice was firm, but not unkind, as he said, "It's not tonight, Mister Lupin."

Remus never looked up, but his voice carried false cheer as he agreed. "No, not tonight. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night's the full moon."

"Have you your potion?"

"I have three. One for tomorrow, one for October. I'll have a spare after that... but if I need it, we should be able to make some more by then. Or it won't matter.

"Remus?" Harry interrupted shyly. "Maybe I could do something about... you know..." Harry's face became progressively more crimson as the two men both stared hard at him. Now that he had begun, however, it would be more humiliating to simply trail off than to say what was on his mind. "About your lycanthropy," he finished with determination.

Remus smiled and leaned back in the hard kitchen chair, much more relaxed than he had been a moment ago. His eyes, which had been directed unseeingly into the far distance, focused on the boy as he said, "I don't really think that..."

Severus Snape drowned out Remus' gentle demurral with hard sarcasm. "This is no just-bitten fresh victim dreading his first transformation. Mister Lupin has been struggling with his lycanthropy for twice as long as you have been alive. And that condition has informed every stage of his life, from the tragedy of his being bitten as a child, through adolescence into adulthood, and on to maturity. You have no idea what you are suggesting."

"Then I'd like to - suggest - that you let the mature man speak for himself," Harry shot back heatedly. "You know, it's always called the 'Curse' of the werewolf... aren't there dozens of curse-breaking spells? Aren't there wizards who specialize in lifting curses? It seems pretty cold to me that none of that power was ever turned Remus' way."

"Harry..." Remus said sadly, standing and moving to put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "The fact is, quite a lot of that power was turned my way. And maybe future research might eventually find a way to address the particulars of what I have. But the most specialized curse-breakers, using the strongest curse-lifting spells, simply couldn't touch the magic that had transformed me. It was too deep... it was in my blood."

"But none of those people could stop time," Harry countered. "None of them could smash Malfoy's practice room. I'll bet that none of them could cast a spell at all without a wand. So we're dealing with something new. And I think I could do it."

"And just what would you do?" Snape sneered with a nasty edge to his voice. "Would you remove all the vulpine characteristics from the human? I doubt that Mister Lupin would thank you for that. Taking away his sense of scent would be like striking either of us blind."

Remus shrugged with an apologetic look toward Harry. "It's even more than that. My whole sense of self has been moulded by the effects of the Wolf. Hating the beast as much as I do, I wouldn't give up my... family... my feeling for you, Harry, as a perfect example."

"Because Harry is James' son, and James was part of your pack," Snape explained, his tone perfectly neutral, but with a slight emphasis on the word 'pack,' to make sure that Harry understood what kind of 'family' Remus spoke of.

"I don't have to cut him in half," Harry argued back at Snape, then turned to Remus, and much more gently, added, "I could change some things, though. There's no reason for your transformations to be chained to the phases of the moon. Animagi have their animal selves all the time, but they only change when they want to change."

"Have you been struck blind already?" Snape mocked. "Look at the man! His transformation is not a single night's isolated nightmare, but a culmination of an entire month's complex cycle. His blood's tides already respond to the moon's pull, making him nervous and distracted a full day before the moon reaches its critical phase. Observe him two weeks from now - or recall how he appeared two weeks ago - and you will see him at his most rational, most under his own control. If you should attempt to block the crucial - transforming - portion of his monthly cycle, it would be as though you had attempted to place a barrier against the sea tide: its power would likely overwhelm your attempts, but if you should be successful, you would likely instigate disaster in some other area of the system. The kind of magic you propose requires a delicate balancing of the many repercussions each slight change would engender. Your most powerful spells, your 'wild magic' have been elemental in their randomness, as well as their strength."

"And what do you expect?" Harry shouted back. "I discovered this extraordinary ability when I was attacked, by surprise, four against one! And every single experiment you've done with me since has forced the power out of me with the most basic, gut-level motivators! There's been fear, surprise, hatred, anger and exhaustion. Don't even try to deny it!" Snape, who had made no attempt to deny Harry's summary... who, in fact, completely agreed with it, raised his eyebrows and glanced at Remus, who was wincing at the sheer volume of Harry's declamations. Harry noticed none of this. He had been feeling misgivings about this matter for some time, and he was enjoying far too much relief at getting it off his chest to pay any attention to his audience's reactions.

"You made sure I was exhausted, then frightened me with an image of Voldemort, cast by surprise. That's four gut-busters - exhaustion, fear, hatred and shock - all at once. You dropped packing crates on me, you set off the Weasleys' stupid jokes on me, you kept me off balance at every opportunity, even getting me to fly without a broom today! What kind of magic do you THINK I'm going to cast in the face of all that? If every trigger that sets off my wandless magic is tied to fight-or-flight, basic survival, what kind of spells do you think I'm going to come up with? Something subtle? Why? If it's Voldemort, I blast him out of this world. If it's heavy falling things, I push the things away. If it's stupid gits on brooms, I set their brooms on fire. And that's what I've been doing all along. No wonder I can't do anything on purpose! If we want to develop subtlety, it's not just a matter of tuning up my big blasts... it's a matter of tying the magic into higher brain functions. It's a matter of triggering the magic with something with a more subtle content than 'Look Out!' What about love? That's a higher function. And it's a helping, healing, caring function as well! And we don't have to look very far, or make something up, either. There's love right here. And it's real, and it's constant." He reached out to put his hand on Remus' shoulder, in a mirror of the very gesture of comfort Remus had offered him just moments previously. "There's enough love right here to drive a spell, I believe. And there's a clear picture in my mind of what I want to do with the magic I cast. I want to save one of my family from a horrible disease that has plagued him almost all of his life. And I want to do it without depriving him of those skills and abilities he has developed as a way of dealing with his affliction." Harry squeezed Remus' shoulder and looked into his eyes. "I love you, Remus."

Remus wanted to reply, but couldn't quite form the words. He tried to smile reassuringly, but with rising panic, he felt his grin widen further than his mouth should have been able to stretch. When he forced himself to speak, he could feel the saliva dripping from his mouth. "Eych laughhug eyuhtaugh..." he said, his voice a violent-sounding snarl.

Snape had his wand drawn and was moving backward before Remus had fallen onto all fours. "Get back, Potter, he can bite you in two with one snap. I'll stun him, and we can get the wolfsbane potion into him somehow..."

"No!" Harry ordered, placing himself deliberately between Snape and the half-transformed werewolf. "He's nearly helpless. He needs to get himself under control. And for that, he needs our support, not more mindless panic."

Much to Snape's disbelief, Harry appeared to be correct. Lupin was struggling, but not to attack. His conflict was all internal. Remus ran his tongue over his teeth, dragged his forepaws along his sides, and tried to draw his rear feet underneath himself. To Snape, Lupin looked like a dog that had eaten poison. But Harry reached out and grasped Remus' thin shoulders in a strong grip. He forced the wolf to face him. Sensing a potentially disastrous mistake, Snape called out, "Don't stare into his eyes!" but Harry shook his head.

"This isn't a dog, Professor," he called back, unafraid. "This is Remus. Our friend, Remus Lupin. And Remus needs our help. He's struggling with freedom that he has never had before. And with that freedom, Remus will be able to control his shape whenever he wants. But he's Remus, whether he's shaped like a wolf, or like the Remus we knew. He's Remus Lupin, and Remus Lupin is strong and smart and has survived a lot worse than this.

If he had been in his human form, Remus would have laughed out loud. He knew what Harry was doing, and to his intense relief, it actually seemed to be working. He tried it himself. I am Remus Lupin, he thought. He visualized himself as the human who had been Remus Lupin in school, and as he held the many jobs he had passed through all his life. Then he visualized himself in the shape of a wolf... but not the Wolf that was mindless fury incarnate. He tried to picture himself as Remus Lupin the man in wolf form. It was odd, foreign, but not completely impossible to visualize. He was Remus Lupin, alpha wolf - albeit by default - of his tiny pack, and senior wolf to this remarkable cub. He was Remus Lupin who had taught at Hogwarts, the very school he had attended and had loved so many years before. He was Remus Lupin. He concentrated on his own face. He felt his snout growing shorter as he willed it back to something resembling his human features. "Hauahee?" he ventured, embarrassed at the imprecision. The cub understood, though, and stroked his fur as he replied with an encouragement to continue. "Thisss gaunaa takka launga tie..."

"I know it will. It's a big change," Harry said softly. "I'll be here with you. Don't try to do too much all at once. We'll see it through together."

"Hauahee... yaua bwann... yaua bwann... hiur... hiur fucton..." The effort was too great, and Remus stopped trying to speak, frustrated.

"I hear you, Remus," Harry said with a broad, beaming smile. "You're damn right it's a higher function of my brain. It might be the highest function any of us has." Harry looked around at Snape, directing his next comment at the potions master. "And if I can heal a lifelong werewolf with nothing but determination and a lot of love, who knows what I might be able to do... with control... on purpose?"

-

Over the next few days, the staff of the Daily Prophet were furiously busy, but deliriously happy with the ongoing series of personal attacks, perpetrated against one another by Albus Dumbledore and Cornelius Fudge, which the Prophet featured ever more prominently in each day's issue until the conflict had escalated to the point at which it rated front-page exposure. On the day of the Front-Page Dumbledore versus Fudge spread, the Prophet photography staff presented their editors with a perfectly matched pair of portraits, ideal for above-the-fold display with one picture on either side of the page. Minister Fudge had been captured in a three-quarters profile, facing left, sternly lecturing the unseen interviewer with a raised index finger and an expression of great solemnity. Headmaster Dumbledore was showcased in a similar partial profile, facing right, his face deeply serious, his brilliant white hair flowing about him as his hands moved to describe a subtle point. The Prophet's headline writers decided on a double headline to compliment the twin pictures. They worked hard to create a layout that made the conflict between the two principals as obvious as possible. When the front page for that day was done, the assembled editors beamed with pride at the compelling composition. The combatants faced each other, their pictures in suitably subtle motion, while between them, the competing headlines blared, "OUR PERIL DENIED," countered with "OUR SAVIOUR LOST."

"Really," the national affairs editor said, "This is too good for the rabble who will end up reading it. It's almost a shame to send it out there to be underappreciated."

"A lot of what we do is too good for the crowd," the entertainment editor shrugged. "But we keep putting it out there. And they keep lining their bird cages with it."

"Don't be vulgar," the society editor sniffed.

"We're journalists," the London City editor snapped. "We're supposed to be vulgar. The readers expect it."

"Streetwise is what they expect," countered Paul Duggin, whose illustrations had appeared on countless editorial pages. "Just because most of them can't tell the difference between practical cleverness and vulgarity is no reason to deny that we should be able to."

"Smart or vulgar, it has to go now, or it doesn't go at all," announced Carl, the production director. The others, all executives with their own offices - except for Duggin, who worked in his own studio away from the newspaper's offices altogether - took the opportunity to look down their noses at the ex-pressman whose responsibilities now included getting each issue of the Prophet completed on time. Their disdain was completely ineffectual. He had the final word. "Come on, any of you that have to sign off on it... give this page an OK. Get your initials into those checkboxes, or we'll have to go with the front page featuring the cute little girl and her sick toad!"

"Ugh," the society editor shuddered, putting her initials onto the page.

"Stuffy broad," the London city editor groused, bumping the society editor out of the way so he could put his mark onto the page. "I liked the girl and toad story. It's got heart... which you wouldn't know anything about."

"Girl with Toad can go on the front of the Community section, the entertainment editor pronounced with authority. It'll lead into the 'Healthy Familiar' column, and make an advertiser happy as well. What's their name... the creature shop in Diagon Alley... they're running an ad in Community today."

"Good to see all you journalists keeping up with the most newsworthy events," Carl chuckled as he collected the properly signed-off copy of the front page.

"Good for your continued employment that we in the newspaper business keep up with our income generators," the entertainment editor shot back, but his only reply was Carl's mocking laughter as the production manager disappeared down the hallway. "Laborer," the entertainment editor sneered after the man, but Carl was gone, and there was no further point in dwelling on his insults.

The national affairs editor clapped his hands, drawing everyone's attention back to the meeting in progress. "For tomorrow..."

-

Albus Dumbledore had been interested in seeing what the Daily Prophet would do with his most recent interview, especially since the reporter who had taken his comments had - very pointedly - let it slip that she was going to be interviewing Minister Fudge immediately upon leaving Dumbledore's office. The headmaster sighed as he realized that his first meeting of the morning would be taking place before the newspaper could possibly be delivered. His curiosity would have to wait until after he had seen this very insistent parent who had demanded the Headmaster's first available appointment that day. Albus laughed gently, thinking of it. There had been no reason to deny the man an early meeting - Dumbledore's calendar was really not that full at the moment. But most parents usually expressed a definite preference for appointments much later in the day. Hogwarts was far to the north of where most students made their homes, and as the year began to wane, conditions there seemed harsh to those used to gentler climes. Dawn was later than it was in the south, and the air remained colder throughout the day. The extreme latitude did offer some rewards in return for suffering through its chill autumns and snowy winters. The spring was a riot of color, scent and returning life, and by the time the school year ended in June, days were clear and almost warm. But appointments with parents at the start of the school year were almost always requested for noon or shortly thereafter. In this respect, Colin Creevey's father was quite different than most.

Dumbledore paused for a moment and pictured the Creevey boys. Dennis was a steady lad, competent in his studies, and his brother... The Headmaster scowled, thinking of the last time he had seen Colin. He deliberately tried to recall the boy in a different setting. He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and thought of a separate occasion on which he had observed the lad. It was no good. His every impression of Colin Creevey was of the boy holding a camera in front of his face. Dumbledore tried to remember whether anyone had ever said that Colin was a good photographer. He couldn't think of a single instance of Mister Creevey's pictures being praised... but he couldn't recall them being criticized, either. The boy may have some potential or he may not, but at least learning to care for his camera should teach him some responsibility, so the hobby was probably not all bad.

The time for his appointment had arrived, so Albus activated the staircase and stood before his desk, awaiting Colin's and Dennis's father.

He didn't have long to wait. Before the staircase had completely finished its transformation, a large, muscular man with gleaming dark gold hair leapt off of the partially-extended top step and into the Headmaster's office. He was wearing khaki, muggle-style field clothing with multiple pockets in shirt and pants, and neatly-laced military boots. His sleeves were rolled up snugly around his bulging upper arms and the top buttons of his shirt were left open, as though the extra-large garment couldn't quite be pulled closed around the wearer's massive chest. His smile was broad, exposing huge, brilliant-white teeth. As he landed from his leap off of the still-rotating staircase column, he laughed, a loose, carefree sound that filled the office with his voice. "Capital bit of workout equipment you have there!" he said, his voice as huge as his laugh had been. "Like running uphill through a steam turbine!" He laughed again, then held up a hand as though to forestall Dumbledore's criticism. "It nearly had me there at the last," he admitted with a broad grin. "There was no telling what your clever machine might have done had those vanes made it all the way out to the walls. But I took the last sets three at a time, then jumped. Exhilarating, I dare say!" He walked forward with a remarkably light tread for such a big man wearing such heavy boots. He extended a hand toward the Headmaster and, grinning all the while, announced himself. "Creevey. Edmund Creevey. My sons are among the lads here."

"Of course, Mister Creevey," Dumbledore said with exaggerated calm, in an attempt to discourage some of Edmund's exuberance. "Have you had a chance to see either of them, yet, today?"

"No time," boomed Mister Creevey. "But Colin did send me an owl... a number of them, to be honest... regarding one of your Missing Men!"

Smiling indulgently, Dumbledore very quietly responded, "I beg your pardon?"

"You must know what I mean... it's all over the papers!" Laughing explosively at his own joke, Edmund Creevey waited half a second for Dumbledore to respond, then launched into his own explanation. "The boy idolizes one of your potion-ingredient hunters... the young one, a student himself... that Potter fellow. Well, when Potter came up missing, Colin was on to a bit of parchment like a terrier onto a rat, and once he had grabbed an owl, there was my first letter of the year. Basically, he was writing to say, 'Oi, Dad, go get him!' telling me the three from here were lost in the Amazon."

"Ah. Yes. And you are an... explorer?" Dumbledore prompted.

"Photographer!" Mister Creevey announced, as though for the benefit of an audience concealed just behind Dumbledore's office's thick walls, wearing cotton wool in their ears. "Although you could certainly say that those subjects I choose to shoot make themselves scarce enough in the civilized world that my photographic excursions do share many qualities with expeditions of exploration."

"Of course," Dumbledore wheezed. "Your son has shown some... interest... in photography, as well."

"Aaa..." Edmund growled. "He'll get over it. He has no eye for the lens."

"He certainly is... persistent," Dumbledore suggested.

Mister Creevey's face worked for a moment, as though he were trying to rid himself of a persistent bad taste. "The boy gets snapshots well enough," he admitted, "but there's not an ounce of real photography in his whole body." Then Edmund smiled broadly once again, and in his booming voice, he returned to the previous subject. "But your lost fellows! They picked quite a place to drop from sight, wouldn't you say?"

Dumbledore stroked his beard. "I'm not sure that I would," he mused.

"Oh, please, Headmaster!" Edmund thundered. "The Amazon jungle is wider, denser and wetter than those of Africa or India. There are any number of criminal organizations that have chosen to hide within its boundaries, and there are said to be whole tribes of people living in its moist embrace who have never met representatives of the civilized world! If your people are lost in there, they're more lost than they could be anywhere else on Earth!"

"Well, yes, I fully agree," Dumbledore murmured distractedly. "It's just that... I'm not entirely certain that they... did... become lost, ah, in there."

Edmund Creevey stood, head cocked to the side, silently staring at the Headmaster. Dumbledore was frankly so relieved that Creevey had actually shut up that he said nothing that might have started the conversation again. The photographer, confused, slowly started to recount what he knew of the situation. "Your professor, the boy and..." Edmund paused, waiting for help. When none was offered, he shrugged. "... Someone else... went to the Amazon and rented a boat, right?"

Dumbledore shook his head apologetically. "A rental company... with no known history, and no one with whom I am familiar to vouch for them... claims to have lost a boat. They have asked Hogwarts to pay for their lost boat. They say that the three people of whom you speak rented their boat. They would like me to believe that those three people did not return their boat. The difficulty with which I am faced... in this situation... is that I am not certain that they ever had a boat in the first place. Or if they are even, in fact, a rental company."

"Are they really in the Amazon?" Edmund asked heartily, with the air of a man who was playing along with a joke, though he did not get it, and was beginning to think that he never would.

"Their bird came from the Amazon... no real doubt about that... and it seemed eager to return, as well... huge creature... I'm sure it could make the flight. But the whole communication... the request for money, the claim that their property had not been returned... the fact that they did not seem very... concerned... about what had happened to their customers... was hardly confidence-inspiring."

As Dumbledore had spoken, Creevey's grin had returned full-force. "On the bleeding edge of the wilderness, Professor," he pronounced authoritatively, "The professional outfitters can't bother themselves about every tenderfoot that plunges into the bush, no matter how well-informed the newcomer might be regarding his specific interest. I mean, no offense to your potions professor, but the man might have known every herb that grew along the riverbank - but if he wasn't aware of how dangerous the poison-dart frog could be, and happened to find one of the beautiful, interesting creatures and pick it up... well, he wouldn't be returning his rental boat, would he?"

Eyes twinkling mischievously, Dumbledore countered, "One doesn't have to travel all the way to the bleeding edge of nowhere to find opportunists who will lie to get money. Even if Professor Snape has become lost in the jungle, I am not at all convinced that I should reimburse an unknown company for their very possibly imaginary boat."

"And that's exactly where I can help you out," Mister Creevey announced with all the sincere believability of a snake-oil salesman. "My next expedition is scheduled to roll out in only a few days. And, by chance, the Amazon is our destination. You can give me the address of this supposed boat house, and I could make some inquiries as to the last known location of your employee, your student and their friend. It's quite likely we could run across them while we're traversing the back country. Now, while my photographs are usually displayed in galleries on my return home from each expedition, and while some commercial concerns will license an image or two for use on clothing or personal accessory items, my major return from my journeys comes from the books I publish featuring the photographs taken on each trip. I believe it would add a certain amount of human interest to my next book if it were called, 'In Search of Snape,' or something of that nature; and if you would add a small forward to the book describing your worry over the missing people and how you were so relieved to find a way to send a team of competent searchers into the bush looking for them. It would all tie together nicely if you would agree to become a sponsor as well, so that we could honestly say that we were in South America on behalf of Hogwarts and Albus Dumbledore, and that we were the official search party assigned to the Amazon area. You know, for when we have to question people who wouldn't be willing to talk otherwise."

Dumbledore seemed to awaken from a light doze as Edmund finished his speech. "Mister Creevey... we are a school. We have barely enough funds to pay our staff... and one of them is a ghost. Even if we stood to make a small fortune by our association with your venture... we haven't the money to give you anything now. However, I will be willing to do this for you. If you do, in fact, find Professor Snape and his companions, I will be more than happy to write your forward, and to cooperate with you in arranging the content of the volume to... ah... match the 'Search' oriented title in which you are interested."

Edmund Creevey was clearly disappointed, but the man could tell when a potential sponsor was not going to be forthcoming with funds. "Can't say fairer than that!" he boomed. "Can you give me those blighters' address, so that I might check out the whole boat story?"

Dumbledore smiled, nodded, and wrote the information on a scrap of parchment. When the explorer left, the Headmaster took a deep breath and enjoyed the silence for a long moment.

-

Fred and George had waited as long as they could stand, but without any communication at all from Harry or his adult cohorts, the twins knew they needed to seek help while there was still time to make plans to resist the attack scheduled for this Halloween. Early in the morning - before the first classes of the day had begun - the Weasleys presented themselves at the office of the Head of their House, Minerva McGonagall. The door was open, so the two young men placed themselves in the doorway, standing at an awkward sort of attention, waiting to be noticed. Professor McGonagall was writing something on a sheet of parchment small enough to lie flat on her desk, without curling itself into the familiar scroll shape most large parchments assumed automatically. The professor's tall, conical, black hat was sitting on her desk just to the side of her parchment, rather than on one of the many shelves that lined the wall. That placement was an indication that she was planning to leave her office very soon. The twins were glad that they had showed up as early as they had, since - once they had decided to seek out help - they could barely wait to tell someone what they had learned.

From the moment she saw the twins standing in her doorway, McGonagall was suspicious. The inveterate pranksters had earned such a reputation for themselves that no one could have blamed the Gryffindor Head of House for being cautious, although her long pause between the time she saw Fred and George and her first words to them bordered on being rude. She didn't care. She was only being prudent by checking for traps, triggers for practical jokes and mischievous devices from the moment she knew the Weasleys were present. "Boys," she said crisply. "What brings you back to Hogwarts?"

The twins appeared to be too embarrassed to actually enter the office. They stood together on the threshold like actors trapped in a tiny proscenium. "Professor."

"Madame."

"Head of our House."

"It's good to see you, Professor."

McGonagall didn't have the patience for the Weasleys' usual routine. She interrupted, anticipating their habitual banter. "Yes, and I suppose this is a lovely robe I'm wearing, and the day is beautiful outside, and I'm quite sure I wish your family just as much health and happiness as you wish mine. Now. What is it that you want, gentlemen?"

"We have come to present ourselves..."

"Humbly"

"...to request an appointment to see the Headmaster."

The corners of McGonagall's mouth turned downward as she studied the pair, trying to figure out where the punchline would be coming from. The twins didn't seem to be concealing anything behind them, though the way they were blocking the doorway was suspicious. Neither of them had a hand in a pocket, and neither one carried any bags nor boxes that might conceal prank engines. "And why didn't you simply send an owl?"

"Well... we're Gryffindors."

"And you are our Head of House."

"And this is the way it's done."

"Properly done, that is..."

"To request an appointment of the Headmaster."

"And besides... this is important."

"Is it?" McGonagall said. "Then I suppose you had better come in here and tell me all about it. And be succinct. I don't have much time."

"Yes, Ma'm," the twins replied in unison.

It was at that moment that Minerva began to believe that the Weasleys might be serious. The twins had requested appointments with the Headmaster on other occasions - always as part of some complex prank or other. But in those cases, the boys had never been willing to share the details of their concerns with her. That they came in to the office in such a docile manner, sat down and waited for permission to speak was evidence of something extraordinary in the works. "Go on," she prompted.

"Uh... Yes, Ma'm. I... I hope you might recall one of our earliest products, Professor. A rather cumbersome jape known as the 'Extensible Ear'."

"I certainly do," Professor McGonagall sniffed. "Great untidy pink protuberance growing from the side of your head. Grotesque." And yet, for all her disdain, McGonagall could not keep the corners of her mouth from twitching upward at the memory of catching Fred with his Ear fully extended.

"Ah... yes. Um, the thing is... we improved it."

"Made it a fully remote unit."

"The whole thing looks to be no more than a wad of gum."

"You could place it anywhere... anywhere gum would stick, anyway..."

"And once placed, it broadcasts whatever it hears to a remote receiver."

"Which could be miles away."

"So we managed to get the ear stuck on a Death Eater..."

McGonagall's interruption was swift, her warning stern. "That is a very serious accusation, boys."

"I doubt the person we picked is going to be whining about false accusations."

"He went to a meeting with Voldemort."

"And we heard the whole thing."

Minerva stared coldly at her visitors. Very quietly, in a deliberately measured delivery, she told them, "For all your school-time pranks, I do not believe that either of you has ever seen the Headmaster truly angry. Had you ever done so, I think you would have reconsidered requesting this meeting. The one subject that the Headmaster does not tolerate joking about is... that man. I should let you go in to see Professor Dumbledore, just to teach the two of you a lesson." She sat silently, breathing hard, eyes glinting fiercely. Then with shocking volume, she shouted at the twins, "But I don't wish to be responsible for your deaths!"

Fred and George looked at one another, both becoming very worried. They had foreseen a number of difficulties, but neither had thought they would be flatly disbelieved, even before presenting their story to Dumbledore. "Please. Professor. There may be some way that we got fooled... that our victim turned the tables on us... but I don't think so. And if Professor Dumbledore hears our story, I think he'll be able to tell right away that what we have to say is true. I mean... I know it's us, and we're jokers and proud of it... but this is really serious. And we don't have much time."

'Finally,' McGonagall thought with a measure of relief. Once the jokers reached the point in their plot at which they introduced an element of panic and started forcing their victims to rush around carelessly, the prank would be revealed. And here was the push for quick action, right on time. McGonagall was a little disappointed. This setup was a bit predictable for such advanced tricksters as the Weasleys. "And how much time don't we have?"

"Til the end of October."

McGonagall was confused. She had expected to hear that tonight or tomorrow was the crucial day. Had Headmaster Dumbledore fallen for the gag - and had the bogus plot been of sufficient complexity - such a short reaction time would have guaranteed a great deal of comical dashing about, getting in one another's way and casting of incorrect spells. But the end of October? "That's a month," she pointed out.

"Only a month, yes."

"Hardly time to gear up an entire country for war."

Minerva felt sick. They weren't joking. Whatever foolish prank had gotten them into this, it was a joke no longer, and the twins really needed help. She thought of the last war, of the deaths and other casualties that Voldemort and his followers had inflicted on her country, her family and friends. "I'll take you in to see the Headmaster personally," she promised. "I want to be there when you tell him about this. And if you're lying, I'll turn you into garden slugs and sprinkle the salt onto you myself!"

Since Minerva McGonagall was perhaps the finest transfigurer in the world, this was no idle threat. But the twins were undaunted as they rose to follow her out of her office.

-

Only a few minutes later, in Albus Dumbledore's office, the discussion had come to a standstill. The twins had related what they had heard about the upcoming attack very quickly. They had described the sound of Voldemort's voice and the rumbling responses of the gathered Death Eaters. But Dumbledore wanted to know who had been bugged with the Extensible Ear device. And the Weasleys weren't telling.

"We're merely protecting our sources," Fred explained for the fourth time in a row.

"You are not... newspapermen," Dumbledore countered wearily.

"But we are businessmen," George replied with irritation.

"Who deal with dark wizards," McGonagall concluded with a sour expression.

"I wouldn't call spying on them dealing with them," Fred shot back fiercely.

"But that's exactly the point," Dumbledore's calm voice intervened. "We need as much information as possible. If you could tell us the name of even one Death Eater, we would have another advantage... miniscule as it might be."

George glared at the Headmaster. "Has it ever occurred to you, Professor Dumbledore, that you may not be the only one to have spies and double agents within that organization?" The Headmaster raised his eyebrows, innocently miming 'Who, me?' George ignored his posing. "I'm not even sure we're the only ones to have them. It would be too stupid if the whole damn bunch of 'em were nothing but spies... but I'll bet there are more moles and plants in the group than we know about. Truly, I wish I could tell you I heard your agent's voice among the crowd. But I couldn't identify any individuals - other than Voldemort himself. The rest were just a rumble of agreement with whatever their leader said."

"I hope you understand the... difficulty of using traitors... to do the work of trustworthy individuals," Dumbledore said, his disapproval of the twins' practice quite obvious. "The danger of a double-cross is always... quite real."

"I think we have protected ourselves."

"But what about your agent?" Albus pleaded. "It would be tragic to reach the point of fighting with the Death Eaters, only to... incapacitate... or even kill... someone who could have helped us."

"Our agent," George insisted, his voice hard, "wants no special treatment. Our agent may - just possibly - have an opportunity, under very particular circumstances, to kill Voldemort. Those circumstances will only arise if our agent is treated exactly the way any Death Eater combatant would be treated. Including being attacked at full force, without mercy. So our agent has made it perfectly clear... no special treatment."

Dumbledore studied each of the twins for a moment, then very calmly stated, "You're using a woman."

"What?" the twins demanded in unison.

"No pronouns," Dumbledore murmured. "Had you been using a man, you would have said 'he.' Instead, to keep from giving away a clue to your agent's identity, you exposed her sex by refusing to refer to it. Intelligence and... counter-intelligence... require a great deal of... well, intelligence. I won't fault your intentions, but I do rather think you may be in over your... erm... heads... in this. Especially if your 'agent' has been using sex to influence your opinion of her. I daresay that this entire... ah... auditory programme which you have reported to me may well have been a... complete hoax."

The twins stared at the Headmaster for a long moment, their anger growing steadily. They looked at one another, and both nodded almost imperceptibly. "Fine," Fred said. "We told you. That's as much as we can do here. Thank you for your time."

"There is... one more thing... you could do," Dumbledore suggested. Once he was certain that the twins were not simply going to stalk out of his office immediately, he continued. "You could leave your ear-receiver with me. You two have a business to run. You can't possibly monitor your device constantly."

"And you have a school to run. And a career as a media star to develop. You look good in the newspapers, Headmaster. I'm sure everyone loves you. But we have a pending patent to protect. As well as an agent to shield. And you have a decision to make: are you going to take some action to help protect our country this Halloween, or are you going to let the Death Eaters enjoy their revel, and then..."

"What was that?" Dumbledore's voice and eyes were sharp and focused. The weak old man was gone, a determined warrior standing in his place.

"Revel. The day before Halloween. The Death Eaters are all getting together and celebrating their impending takeover of the world the next day. Though how they'll manage to actually do anything the next day, I have no idea. From the sound of it, the party should create some pretty powerful hangovers."

"A Death Eater revel is no drunken schoolboy's party," Dumbldore snapped. "It will likely involve the torture and murder of several innocents. Where is this revel to be held?"

"Wherever they get together. From what I understand, the Death Eaters themselves don't know where it is. They apparate toward some homing signal sent out by Voldemort. If you could tune in to that signal, then you'd know where to go. Until the signal goes out, no one knows."

"Then it is more crucial than ever that I know who your agent is." Dumbledore's demand was fierce, his eyes flashing, his hands working as though he could grab the Weasleys' spy and drag her out of thin air. "I might be able to follow her, or apparate with her, or at least have some idea of where this damned murderous revel is to take place."

"No special treatment," George said flatly. "And, you know, we might just be horny young men whose heads have been turned by a pretty liar."

"Get ready, Headmaster," Fred added. "That's the important thing. Whatever they do beforehand, on Halloween they'll attack. And they sound like they mean it, this time. Unless we've been fooled by a programmed hoax."

The twins had put their bravest faces on, but for a moment it appeared as though Dumbledore would curse them into submission and draw their secrets out by any means necessary. They tensed, waiting for the spell that would bind them, knock them senseless, or rob them of their self control. The moment passed. Dumbledore looked even older and more weary than he had previously, and the twins could clearly see that, compared to the man who had presided over their own school days, this Dumbldore had suffered from the additional years and the many disappointments that had come with them. The Headmaster composed himself, accepting the minor defeat of not learning who the Weasleys' agent was in return for the advantage they had given him with the warning of the Halloween attack. "Thank you both," he said simply. "I will do my best. I trust that you will do yours, as well."

The twins took the spiral staircase, leaving Professor McGonagall behind with the Headmaster. Halfway down, Fred remembered to breathe. George began to make a taunting comment about that, and realized that he had been holding his breath as well. By the time they had reached the corridor at the foot of the stairs, both were laughing.

-

As the Weasley Twins left the Hogwarts grounds, Hermione Granger was already heading toward her second class of the day. She would have a long walk, even if the moving staircases did not send her on a circuitous detour (as had happened twice last week). So she was concentrating on moving quickly and not paying much attention to who else was sharing the corridor. As a result, she was quite surprised by an insistent voice immediately next to her. "You were one of his friends. I'd think you'd be interested."

Hermione turned to see the earnest face of Euan Ambercrombie staring hopefully at her as he hurried to keep pace with her rush through the hallways. Hermione stopped and Euan nearly ran into her, so eager was he to thrust a pamphlet into her hands. Hermione read the headline of the pamphlet and suppressed a groan. In bold print, the cover of the folded leaflet read: "WE MUST FIND THE BOY WHO LIVED!"

Hermione cleared her throat and gently but firmly explained to Euan, "I - am - a friend of Harry's. But who is this 'We' who have to find him?"

Euan looked scandalized that Hermione would question the headline without even reading the rest of the handout first. "You... me... everyone," he exclaimed fervently. "You've seen the papers... Fudge is right! Harry was our hope to defeat You-Know-Who, and now more than ever we have to find him!"

"Pardon me," Hermione countered coldly. "Is this the same Fudge that insisted that Harry was mentally deficient? The same one who swore that 'You-Know-Who' could never possibly return... until he was practically bowled over by Voldemort himself?" Euan hissed at the mention of the Dark Lord's name, which drove Hermione into an even steeper rage. "What? Do you think He Who Must Not Be Considered Rationally is going to appear before me in a puff of smoke? Do you think he's that powerful?"

"He could be," Euan insisted stiffly.

"Then how can you be willing to send Harry - who's a boy no older than you are, by the way - to face him in a duel to the death?"

"Th... there were prophesies," Euan stammered defensively. "Harry is powerful. He has what it takes to defeat... Him. That's why Harry lived and Voldemort had to go without a body for so many years. Harry has protection."

"And you have no idea in what form that 'protection' comes, do you?" Hermione scoffed. "Harry is a student just like you... even less advantaged than you, because you at least knew there was such a thing a magic before you came to Hogwarts. Harry didn't. He was raised among muggles who told him that magic absolutely did not exist. Harry has some strengths... he's a great quiddich seeker, for one thing. But he also has weaknesses - a lot of them. He wasn't very good in Potions; he's hopeless at Arithmancy; and when we were in History of Magic together, he would ask me what I thought about the lectures, and then on the tests he would quote whatever I had told him as directly as he could remember it! He's all right at Charms, he's adequate - barely - at Transfiguration... What part of this picture makes Harry look like a super powerful wizard? He's good under some kinds of pressure: quiddich pressure, tri-wizard tournament pressure... but have you ever seen him take a test? I've sat in class right next to him and tried to concentrate as he squirmed and grumbled and practically tore his hair out."

"Never mind," Euan said with disgust. "I thought you were his friend."

"I am his friend, you moron!" Hermione snarled, slapping at Euan's hand and sending pamphlets flying across the floor. "A lot better friend than you with your petitions to bring Harry back so he can fight the Dark Lord for you. Did it ever occur to you that Harry might have gone somewhere other than Hogwarts on purpose? Maybe because he was sick and tired of having people try to run his life for him?"

Euan brightened considerably. "Do you know where he's gone, then?"

"I wouldn't tell you if I did!" Hermione snapped and stalked away, still holding one of the folded sheets Euan had handed her. As soon as she had put some distance between herself and the boy, and was convinced that Ambercrombie had stayed behind to pick up his fliers, Hermione glanced over her copy, once again feeling irritation at the headline, but feeling considerably worse as she read through the content of the rest of the handout.

Among other things, Ambercrombie's pamphlet advocated a general student strike on the part of all Gryffindors, with members of other Houses welcome to join if they shared sufficient fellow-feeling with the Gryffindor cause. Hermione could see that, at the very least, this was a disastrous approach to take. The pamphlet's own text ranted that the return of "He Who Must Not Be Named" was a nationwide catastrophe that threatened every person, magical or muggle, in the United Kingdom... and ultimately, the world. So why should Gryffindors be uniquely concerned over the potential solution to the world's problem? And how was Euan Ambercrombie authorized to extend an invitation to anyone else on behalf of Gryffindor? And worst of all (Hermione giggled in spite of her irritation) How could anyone rail on for an entire page about someone Who Must Not Be Named? It was ludicrous. All of the 'You Know Whos' scattered throughout the text made Euan - or whoever had written this - appear to have no idea of who it was that frightened him so badly. More to the point, it seemed dishonest. The ambiguous identification of the villain made it far too easy for the author to disavow his own assertions. If things turned out unexpectedly, the writer could always say, "Oh, no. I didn't mean Voldemort. I meant that other Fellow Who Must Not Be Named."

Hermione was still giggling as she approached the doorway to her next class. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil were talking near the classroom door, and as Hermione approached, they regarded her with scorn. "You think it's funny?" Lavender challenged before Hermione had even realized the two girls were there.

Hermione looked up, confused, then held up her pamphlet for the others to see. "You mean this?"

"Yes, this," Parvati replied with dramatic disapproval directed toward Hermione, while proudly displaying her own copy of the flier.

"I thought you were close to Harry," Lavender said with a superior air. "I suppose this is how you show your loyalty; by tittering at others' efforts to help your friend."

Hermione shook her head impatiently. "Oh, cut it, Lavender. Euan tried to give me the same crap, and it's not going to work from you either. Look at this thing!" She demanded, waving the tract in the air in front of Lavender's nose. "It's a clumsy piece of writing. The writer wails that Harry may be dead. Then he insists that we have to find him - presumably alive. But, he admits that he has no idea where to start looking for Harry, and his recommendations are all nonsense. How will Gryffindor students going on strike help anything?"

"Maybe by making our high and mighty teachers realize that there's a serious problem that we have to take care of," Parvati said, reaching out and snatching Hermione's pamphlet away before it struck Lavender's face.

"Then why is it just Gryffindors going on strike? The flier says that this situation is everyone's problem."

"Because our House is the family we can count on, and Harry is in our House," Lavender shot back, her upper lip curled contemptuously. "You just don't want to miss a lesson, Hermione. The rest of us realize that Hogwarts - especially Gryffindor House - stands for something more important than earning grades and getting ready to pass our N.E.W.T.S. We have to take responsibility, and be involved in our society if we expect to be the leaders of our world when we graduate from this school."

For Hermione, hearing Lavender Brown deliver a speech in commencement-day style about today's students being the Leaders Of Tomorrow was nearly too surreal. Hermione was almost struck speechless, but her anger overcame her amazement. "So you skip some classes hoping that somehow, this will force your school's administration to search for a boy who could be practically anywhere in the world? Who at Hogwarts should be involved in trying to locate a lost boy, anyway? Do we have someone whose vision might pierce the veil hiding secret knowledge from the rest of us?" With a wicked grin, Hermione brought up Lavender and Parvati's favorite teacher. "Doesn't Professor Trelawney have something to tell us about this?" She gave the two girls time to scowl and sneer and then an extra moment to stew in frustration before she went on with mock sympathy, "No? It's not surprising. Expecting our teachers to find someone who may be deliberately hiding is unreasonable. And it could be worse. As much as I hate to even think this, Harry might be dead. Who among us, student or teacher, could find him then? Wouldn't a missing person search be more effective if it were undertaken by the aurors? Wouldn't it be more practical, more efficient, to ask professionals to do what they are already experts at doing? What is the Hogwarts staff going to do, divide up the globe and send everyone out to cover an area?"

"We know Harry's in the Amazon," Parvati sneered, making her points in a singsong taunt. "We know he travelled by river. We know he had a teacher with him. We know he was looking for potions ingredients. All of that was in the newspaper, if you'd only look."

"It was only in the newspaper," Hermione said hotly. "because Fudge said so in an interview. And all Fudge cared about in that interview was making Headmaster Dumbledore look bad."

"Minister Fudge," Lavender corrected, adding the honorific with sarcastic sweetness. "And he got his information from the aurors. So if you say aurors are so good at finding missing persons, it sounds like Minister Fudge made a good start to me."

"Girls," the professor's voice carried enough warning that both the prospective strikers and their opponent dropped their argument immediately and walked into class, still glaring coldly at one another.

-

At the end of the day's class schedule, Euan Ambercrombie met with his chief lieutenants in the strike plan, Lavender Brown and Natalie McDonald. The three gathered in the main hallway near the front entrance, the mad bustle of traffic rushing past affording them nearly as much privacy as if they had met somewhere alone. None of the three had good news.

"Oh, people are angry," Natalie admitted grumpily. "And they all want someone else to do something about what's happened. But when I suggest that maybe they should take some action, they're all, 'No, I'm scared. I don't want to be identified. I don't want to get labeled a troublemaker. I don't want anything going into my permanent record.' Cowards. I think If I had suggested that they put on hoods and go vandalize something anonymously, I would have had more takers. But asking people to stand up and be counted? Useless. I thought we were Gryffindors. What's the point of being one of 'The Brave' if you don't have the guts to speak your own mind in public?"

"I thought I might get some of Potter's friends to stand with us and help convince the rest of the House to participate," Lavender reported, making sure her companions understood how she had used strategy to plan her approaches to people rather than simply trying to gather participants at random. "But the Weasley boy stared at me as though I were speaking swahili, and that Granger witch..." Natalie and Euan both laughed, hearing the implied insult in Lavender's pronunciation of the perfectly proper descriptive term.

Lavender continued her lament, confident that she had the attention of - and would soon have the respect and admiration of - both the others. 'It's only a matter of time before they realize that I'm the brains of the organization,' Lavender thought. 'And if this strike is successful, our group will be the one that the school looks to first for political action.' Lavender thought that being a radical could be quite romantic, and a great deal of fun. But to get to be the premier political force on campus, she needed a successful opening demonstration. A student strike would be perfect. Hermione Granger was not helping Lavender's cause in the least.

"Granger was dead set against me from the beginning. She used foul language, and was quite insulting."

"We'll all be using foul language," Euan warned. "And it's guaranteed that we'll be insulting enough as we're using it. We're not going to be able to take a strong stand and retain the delicacy of polite society as we take it. Anyway, maybe tonight will be our first opportunity. At dinner, when everyone is gathered together, we can stand up - the three of us and whoever else you've gotten to commit to joining - and make our demands heard. Maybe we can shame the rest of the House into participating. Who said they were willing to join us?"

"Parvati," Lavender said with a shrug.

"And her sister?" Euan pressed.

"Not yet," Lavender admitted, not willing to describe how Padma had left for class without comment when Lavender and Parvati had asked her to participate.

"Too bad," Euan said deflatedly. "It would have really helped to have someone from one of the other Houses stand with us. Did either of you find anyone from another House interested?"

Before either of the girls could answer, a loud shout interrupted the discussion. Euan rolled his eyes as he realized that it was Crabbe and Goyle approaching at a fast walk, and that Vincent was trumpeting his contempt at them as the pair approached.

"Oi, Gryffs! You blokes going on strike? Good job for that, mates, you can't get out of class soon enough for me! Just think of how pleasant those double classes will be with only a single House attending!"

Euan stood calmly, letting Crabbe's venom wash past without letting it affect him. "I know you're not concerned about this," he said. "You would probably be happy if You Know Who returned, Slytherin."

Crabbe's visage turned from mocking to threatening in an instant. "You calling me a Death Eater, Gryffindor?"

"Pffft." Euan's contempt was evident in everything from his posture to his dismissive tone. "They wouldn't have you. The Death Eaters prize strength and competence, evil as they are. In a real dark wizard society, you'd be the first to go."

"What do you know about it, Ambercrombie," Crabbe shouted, balling his hands into fists. "It just so happens that I Ooofff..."

Vincent bent nearly double, bowing at the waist as though taking a particularly theatrical bow on the stage. Goyle stepped forward a half step, glaring directly into Euan's eyes as he slid something up into his right sleeve. "It just so happens," Greg growled with a dangerous intensity, "that not everyone is as dumb as they appear to be. Just remember, Ambercrombie, that playing stupid is an effective way to put your opponents off guard. Which begs a question: Are you trying to put me off my guard, Ambercrombie?"

"No need to do it," Euan said, meeting Greg's stare directly. "And no interest in it anyway. You're no more important than Crabbe is, Goyle. In fact, you're just like him. The two of you are a pair of thugs, without a thought to share between you since Malfoy's been gone."

"Just keep thinking that, Ambercrombie," Goyle sneered. "Come on, Vince. We've got somewhere to be."

Vincent straightened from his deep bow still trying to catch his breath. He was so shocked at whatever Goyle had done to him that he forgot to cast his trademark threatening look at the Gryffindors as he left. Goyle led him away without a backward glance.

"What do you think you were doing?" Natalie demanded, gently cuffing Euan on the shoulder. "Either one of those guys is twice your size. And you're right... they are thugs. We're trying to get something done today, get some support for our strike. Why do you need a pair of hooligans on your arse?"

Euan was still staring at the place where Crabbe and Goyle had disappeared from view. His face held a faint smile, and his eyes were far away. He ignored the punch to the shoulder and told Natalie, "I think it's this whole political thing. It's making these pamphlets and working to get people involved. I really do feel like I can stand up for myself, now. I'm not afraid of them, either one or both together. All they can do is hit me. But I'm part of something bigger than either of them - or both of them put together!"

"Our movement won't be any bigger at all if we don't get moving," Lavender interrupted Euan's musing with a stern practicality. "If we're going to stand up at dinner, we'll need someone else to join us or we'll be nothing more than four individuals, easily cut out of the herd of obedient students and sent off to where we won't raise any fuss. If we split up and each take a location, we could rally some support. I could take the library..."

"No time," Euan said, sounding far too much like a group leader for Lavender's liking. "We need to coordinate, and most importantly, to be able to call off any overt action if we don't have enough people participating. Let's go to the Common Room and get everybody there involved. If they don't go along with us, we need to rethink our strategy."

Natalie agreed immediately, and Lavender, seeing no real alternative, followed along behind the two of them. 'Can't they see the obvious?' she thought bitterly. This is my group, my rebellion, my opportunity. It was in the cards I scryed last night - it showed clearly in my tea leaves this morning!' But since Lavender had not proven herself by bringing in the support the fledgling rebellion needed for a successful student strike, she had no choice but to bide her time and assert herself later.

-

At dinner, the Gryffindor table was divided. The half closest to the staff table held the potential strikers. The other half was occupied by those who had decided not to join the student protest. But all of the Gryffindors, whether they intended to participate in the demonstration or not, were in for a surprise as Headmaster Dumbledore stood up before the food was served and addressed the students.

"I understand that many of you here tonight are concerned about the recent disappearance of one of our students and one of our staff members. So am I. I know that many of you believe that Hogwarts should be involved in finding our missing friends and, if necessary, helping them out of any difficulties into which they may have fallen. So do I. I know that many of you feel that the steps we take toward that goal should be instituted immediately... if not sooner. So do I. Therefore, it gives me great pleasure to announce the Great Hogwarts Expedition To Find Our Student Potter and Our Professor Snape... or, as it will certainly be referred to by popular insistence, GHETFOSPAOPS!"

If the Headmaster had expected applause, he was disappointed. Three tablesfull of students looked toward the staff table in puzzlement. The Gryffindors closest to the staff sat glowering, casting suspicious glances toward Dumbledore, trying to figure out how they were being tricked. The rest of the Gryffindors seemed relieved for the most part, with a few stifling their laughter at the dissatisfied scowls of their Housemates.

"G'het-FOS-Pay-Ops," Dumbledore enunciated clearly into the silence. "Ghetfospaops... it rolls off the tongue, doesn't it? Well, the expedition itself is already rolling out of the country and straight toward the mighty Amazonian jungle in Brazil, South America. It is led by the world-famous traveller, explorer and wildlife photographer Edmund Creevey, whose sons Colin and Dennis both attend our school. You may be familiar with Edmund Creevey's last book, 'In the Land of the Tiger.' No? Let me assure you that the tome was quite thick, filled with photographs of extremely interesting animals, and... most importantly... it took over three quarters of a year to shoot, during which time Mister Creevey constantly honed his skills in jungle exploration. That was not the first time the Creevey party had explored wild areas, either. His group has travelled the trackless desert and the frozen polar regions for previous projects, as well as having done extensive work in heavy forests throughout the world. He and his crew are now among the very most experienced wilderness explorers in all of the United Kingdom - magical or muggle. They will be following the very latest evidence to seek out our missing student and Professor and return them to us."

There was scattered applause from around the room, but only a tense silence from most of the Gryffindor table. Those who had been ready to walk out on strike sat sullenly, unconvinced by Dumbledore's apparent optimism, while those who had not been willing to participate in the protest watched the others warily.

"He's trying to take it away from us," Lavender Brown whispered, beckoning Euan and Natalie to huddle with her.

"No... I think we won," Euan said cautiously.

"The threat was enough," agreed Natalie. "We were sufficiently determined that the Headmaster had to act to prevent our disrupting classes."

"No!" Lavender wailed, still trying to remain unheard by those at the staff table. She could see her dream of becoming a romantic, heroic, rebel leader vanishing as the other students around her began to accept Dumbledore's proposal. "If we're going to stand for something, uh... if we're going to make an impression... I mean, if we're going to take a position and hold on to it, firmly, without wavering in the face of distractions..."

Lavender spent so much time whispering to her co-conspirators that she missed her chance to speak out for everyone to hear. It was Victoria Frobisher who stood up from her place next to Natalie and asked the first question of the Headmaster. "I know you say he has books published, Professor. But is this Creevey really any good?"

"Hey!" Colin shouted from the far end of the table. "That's my father you're talking about!" Colin's anger was exacerbated by the fact that he had been no more aware of his own father's participation in this expedition than had any of the other students.

He was echoed by his brother Dennis, who insisted, "Too right he's good! He's the best!" Dennis sounded more hurt than angry. He wondered why his father hadn't given him some clue that he was going to be involved.

The Gryffindor table erupted in mutterings and shouts as the other three Houses' students looked on with amusement. The Headmaster let the noisy rhubarb continue for a short while, but when Colin Creevey stood up, fists clenched, looking ready for a fight, Dumbledore called the assemblage to order again. "Listen," he ordered, and the noise in the Hall faded to a minimal rumbling. "Mister Creevey is good. And you don't have to enjoy his books... or even appreciate his photography... to understand that one thing he is exceptionally good at... is finding his way through nearly impassibly dense jungle... and locating his subjects in their own natural habitat... where they have every advantage in avoiding him. The fact that Mister Creevey was able to locate... and obtain photographs of... hundreds of animals in the dense jungles of India is ample evidence that he should be able to... ahhh... penetrate the Amazon in order to search for... those people... we seek."

Before the Headmaster could call for an end to questions, Hermione Granger stood. Without sounding accusatory or snide, she asked, clearly and simply, "Isn't it true that Harry Potter and Professor Snape might not be in the Amazon at all?" She immediately sat down again, leaving the focus on her question rather than on herself.

Professor Dumbledore looked out at Hermione with a small smile playing around his lips. He sighed before he spoke, and he looked tired as he stood behind the staff table, but his voice was rich and reassuring. "Of course it is possible that they are elsewhere. It is my hope that they are on their way here at this very moment. I would be pleased and relieved to see them both walk into the Great Hall right now. But we are searching the whole world for two individuals. No needle could ever be so well concealed in the largest known haystack. We will begin our search at the place where our evidence indicates they were most likely to have been most recently, so far as we know. Don't forget, I have my own resources to put to work as well." He raised a hand to vaguely indicate the general area of his head. "So, one way or another, I believe we will find both Mister Potter and Professor Snape. My hope is that we will find them quickly - uninjured, and in good health. Now. We have delayed our evening repast for far too long. Enjoy!" He gestured, and food appeared, hot and aromatic, on serving platters distributed among all the tables. The Headmaster sat and began to serve himself, and as he did, he began a quiet conversation with Professor McGonagall. No one could reasonably accuse Dumbledore of ignoring the students, but the Headmaster never made eye contact with any of the Gryffindors for the remainder of the meal.

-

With Draco safely at school, Narcissa drew the elegant wooden box from beneath her bed, placed it carefully on the neatly made covers, closed her eyes and took several long, slow, deep breaths. When she opened her eyes once again, she was ready to face her situation directly. The box she contemplated was beautiful, originally a gift to her grandmother from some long-dead relative. The surface was covered with thin strips of wood carefully inlaid to create swirling patterns that played off the wood grain as much as the shapes of the carved pieces. The colors were subtly varied from piece to piece, creating the illusion of pictures that seemed to recall something just beyond memory, but which never quite resolved into definite representations of anything identifiable. The box had never belonged to her father; Narcissa had inherited it directly on her grandmother's death. When she had received it, she had placed it on a shelf, admiring its beauty, but paying little attention to such a simple, beautiful artifact. She was more concerned with other things - especially the Black family fortune and how that wealth was to be divided. But her grandmother had known Narcissa more thoroughly than the girl had realized. When the young Miss Black had finally worked the subtle combination of sliding strips that opened the box, she had found a letter addressed to her - along with a small vial containing a substance with which she was completely unfamiliar... but which she would come to know very well in the following years. Thus it was that the powerful matriarch of the Black family posthumously introduced Narcissa to laudanum, and to a craving that would remain with her for the rest of her life.

Her grandmother's letter had contained a number of wild-sounding predictions, most of which had since come true. It had included scathing descriptions of many of her close relatives, most of which Narcissa now agreed with. And it had included an emotional paean to laudanum, which Narcissa had come to understand after she had experienced the drug's effects for herself. The letter laid out clear differences between users of the drug and addicts to it. There was a strong warning that weak personalities could be destroyed through use of the substance in the vial, and an equally strong endorsement of the drug's therapeutic effects, as well as a vivid description of the escape that the substance could provide - the respite it could grant one from the hellish situations the Black family were particularly gifted at creating for themselves. There were also valuable clues as to how further laudanum could be obtained, and how to tell a well-prepared sample from a poor one. Narcissa had availed herself of her grandmother's recommendations regarding connections for a few years, but eventually she had met Severus Snape, and had never again trusted anyone else to obtain the drug for her.

Her mind drifted as she stood there, letting her eyes slowly lose focus, lulled by the hypnotic patterns within the delicate inlay of the box. Snape. She called him Severus, because she knew it made him uncomfortable, yet she was sure that he would never voice any objections over it to her. But despite the familiar address she used so casually, she always thought of him as Snape. She believed that he probably thought of himself the same way. His odd, difficult life had nearly erased that part of him that would have responded to his given name, leaving an individual that was a potent distillation of intense perfectionism and impatient contempt for anyone who was not as driven and as rigorously demanding as was he. There were some notable exceptions to this rule. He seemed to care for Draco, even to love the boy in his own sharp, unforgiving way. And he had always given her the impression that he had wanted something from her - something that was not sex and had nothing to do with money. That refreshingly unexpected combination had intrigued Narcissa - and puzzled her - for years. The closest she had come to understanding it was during those times that Snape had appeared to be trying to make Lucius jealous. In those situations, Snape would engineer situations in which Lucius could see how deeply Draco respected his potions professor. Lucius never betrayed any reaction to those demonstrations, and yet Narcissa was certain that Snape enjoyed staging them for the anguish he believed Lucius suffered as a result. Snape would also make a point of displaying his secure friendship with - and deep understanding of - Narcissa. There was never anything sexual implied in these little vignettes, but that very lack of carnal content made them all the more damning. It was as though Snape were showing that Lucius was ignorant of the real personalities and the actual lives of his wife and son. And, of course, Snape had been right. Lucius had dedicated himself to a pursuit of power that was as doomed as it was mad. He had ignored or abused his family, creating a home that was as cold as any of those produced by the worst of the Black family's cruel unions. And now, he sat imprisoned, awaiting only an official pronouncement to send him to his death. And where was the great Dark Lord during all of this? He was certainly not offering any practical assistance, nor any hope of any to come. Narcissa hoped she never saw him or heard his name again.

But how did she feel about Lucius? Now that she was free of him, although under rather horrible circumstances, would she want him back if he were released from prison? Would she be happy if he were to join her here in her French hideaway? If, by some miracle, the Court set her husband free, would she return to being Mrs. Malfoy? She felt the pull of the contents of the box as she thought about that. She felt the welling urge to immerse herself in the warm comfort, the painless relaxation, the hallucinatory contemplative torpor of the laudanum. She deliberately let herself feel the desire, the craving. Then, just as deliberately, she forced herself to focus and to understand that... for today at least... she would not be indulging that desire. She had abstained from using the drug for many days by this time, and had indulged herself with only a tiny amount on each of several days prior to that. She was ready to lock it away once again.

She drew her wand and picked up the box, stuffing it unceremoniously under her arm to free one hand to open the bedroom closet. Hanging on the back wall of the closet was an empty picture frame which seemed old, beaten up and not worth the effort to steal. It clearly held no art, and did not even have a backing board or a glass cover that might hold any value. However, as with much of Narcissa's possessions, there was much more to this item than the readily apparent. In this case what met the eye was four bits of wood and some glue. But this frame was charmed with a spell very similar to that which could be used to create a bag of holding. The frame was, in effect, a wall safe, and only someone who knew the precise magical combination could open it to add or retrieve items. Despite its very effective disguise, it was also charmed with a sophisticated guarding spell which would be triggered any time the frame was handled improperly. Anyone attempting to carry it away without casting the correct identifying spells would be struck with a Petrificus Totalis. The thief who attempted to burglarize the frame would rue the day he tried to steal from Narcissa Malfoy. WIth such a system in place, Narcissa was quite confident regarding the safety of her possessions.

Moving her wand in a precise pattern, she cast the spell that unlocked the frame. A dim blue glow indicated that her personal safety deposit box was open.

The glow illuminated the interior, which was quite spacious, and could be expanded even further with a simple spell. Narcissa selected a place near the back of the current boundary of the holding area and gently placed the box inside. She then added a charm to the spot on which the box sat, using a spell that functioned as a sort of time lock. She named a date many months in the future. Once the spell was cast, she would not be able to remove the box from the frame of holding until that date had passed. She closed the holding area before she had a chance to regret her action, arranged the hangers so that her clothes hid the frame, and shut the closet door firmly. It was done. She may need to use the drug some time in the future, but she would not use it today or tomorrow or any time for several months. And by that time, the craving that was already making her stomach clench and her palms sweat would have passed, and the dreams of laudanum would once again be distant memories.

At times such as these, Narcissa knew that being busy with the mundane tasks of normal life was the best antidote to obsessing over the absence of the drug. She tied her hair back with a scarf, selected a pair of sunglasses and took some money from the drawer in the nightstand next to her bed. She chose to bring both francs and galleons, not knowing exactly where she would go in this oddly mixed neighborhood where witches, wizards and muggles lived in such close contact with one another. She had a vague idea that she would go shopping. But she didn't want to go out in search of clothes or jewelry or anything major like furniture. She thought it would be fun to shop for groceries, bring some food home and cook something fresh for tonight's dinner. There were small markets close by, each of which specialized in a single food item - a vegetable stand, a butcher, a bakery - and she decided that it was about time that she took advantage of the friendly atmosphere of those places to allow herself to meet some of her neighbors - and maybe even learn how witches recognized one another amidst the press of muggles all around this place. She walked out of her front door, locking it with a flick of her wand without even thinking of what she was doing. An instant later, she caught herself, glanced around to make sure there were no muggles watching, placed her wand decisively into her handbag and began the walk to the local grocery.

Within a few steps, she was already feeling more confident and more cheerful. She looked at the neighborhood that she had not taken the time to appreciate previously, and she found that it was really quite pretty, a very appealing collection of homes. The air carried the scent of herbs, both from the gardens in nearby yards and from someone's cooking. The fall atmosphere was crisp, cool and invigorating. She smiled, feeling herself relax all over. This was going to be fun.

Narcissa had wondered how she would manage to stay in any of the local markets long enough to meet anyone without looking suspicious. She needn't have worried. The first shop she entered, the greengrocer's, was huge, and quite crowded. Despite the chaos and the hearty hum of conversations all over the shop, the proprietor called out, "Bonjour, Madame!" immediately on Narcissa's entry. She answered with her own quiet, "Bonjour," and heard several patrons laugh. Her first impression was that the laughter was in response to the contrast between the proprietor's hearty greeting and her own demure reply. She knew that such an impression made no sense, that the people crowding the shop were involved in conversations of their own, and that few of them would have been interested in her at all. But, despite her own logic, she felt as though she were back in school, mystified at the existing culture in this strange place, and nervous over being laughed at. She knew that her hypersensitivity must have been caused by the relative harshness of sobriety contrasting with the soothing numbness of her time spent under the influence of laudanum. But there would be no escape for her back into the dull torpor of the drug. She concentrated on her movements, forcing herself to remain loose and graceful, even as her initial reaction was to tense up defensively. She began to walk through the first aisle of the shop, between wooden racks on the walls holding bunches of herbs, opposite heavy wooden tables topped with shallow boxes of vegetables over large mounds of root crops and gourds stacked beneath. The place smelled fresh and clean with a combination of vegetable scents that recalled the aroma of a rich soup. There was no further laughter from the other customers and no one was staring at her, so Narcissa once again relaxed and began to inspect the items offered for sale.

Narcissa had allowed her mind to wander even as her languid pace took her wandering through the store. She was listening to the soothing sounds of friendly conversation and idly watching the customers, when a voice immediately behind her made her jump. She turned quickly, too surprised to force herself to remain nonchalant, only to see an old woman standing there, her shopping bag partly filled with potatoes and bitter greens.

"Ah. It is you," the old woman said with satisfaction, in English, a smug smile on her face.

Narcissa's heart pounded. Who would know to address her in English first, except someone who had been sent from the UK to track her down? It hardly mattered whether the agent represented the government or the Dark Lord. Either group finding her now could spell disaster. The woman with the bag of potatoes and greens seemed an unlikely assassin, however, so Narcissa needed to know where this stranger's accomplices were hiding. The only way to determine that was to give them a chance to reveal themselves through their actions. Narcissa returned the woman's smug smile with an ironic grin of her own. "Is it?" she teased, waiting for someone else in the store to begin to move toward her, block the doorway or draw a wand.

"Yes. You have become my neighbor," the old woman beamed, skin crinkling at the corners of her eyes as she smiled more warmly. "Less than ten houses away. What is it? Seven? No. Eight houses. You come out your front door and turn to the left. Then count the house next to you as one. Mine will be eight as you count. The one like terra cotta."

The last comment was hardly any help. In Narcissa's new neighborhood, all of the houses were nearly the same color, and the heavy use of tile and masonry gave them all a look 'like terra cotta.' French houses tended to face inward, their front doors small, most without front windows at all. Many of the larger houses were constructed around a central courtyard, open to the sky. The majority of the smaller ones - such as Narcissa's - featured a small, walled back yard instead of a court. The Blacks' new home was actually uncommonly inviting, with its large number of windows and prominent front door. But most of the houses on her street showed a nearly solid wall to the public. This gave the builders ample room to display tile work on the surface of the house that faced the street. But Narcissa hardly cared about her new neighbor's pride in her home's tile. Instead, she was filled with relief as she realized that no accomplices were moving into position, no attackers were approaching. She had not been recognized as a fugitive after all. Instead, she had been recognized as a neighbor and, perhaps, a potential friend. "I wish I could say that I know the home of which you speak," Narcissa replied with a rather stiff formality calculated to make her English easier to understand for a non-native speaker. "But I have not ventured out from my own door very often since moving to my new home."

"I understand your reluctance," the old woman said with a sly look. "And I may be able to help you in that respect." She reached into the handbag that had remained mostly concealed by her shopping bag and drew a very elegant wand, only far enough for Narcissa to recognize it for what it was, then allowing it to drop back into her bag as soon as she was certain that Narcissa had seen it and understood its implications. "We are a very mixed neighborhood, but that does not mean that it is a bad place to live... only that we must be discreet." Narcissa's new neighbor watched for a reaction to her revelation, and was pleased to see that the younger woman obviously had many questions - but that she was disciplined enough to refrain from asking any of them here. The old woman seemed to be waiting for something else as well, but when it was not forthcoming, she shrugged and continued, "I am Eugenie DeMolay."

"Narcissa Black," Narcissa replied automatically, before the significance of the other woman's name struck her. Narcissa's eyes widened and she reflexively stepped back in order to get a full view of the other woman. Eugenie DeMolay was the matriarch of one of the most socially powerful families on the Continent. What on Earth was she doing shopping for her own food at the neighborhood green grocer's? Narcissa had not yet decided whether or not to challenge her neighbor's declaration - or whether to ask if she merely shared a common name with the famous socialite, when Eugenie's reply shocked her into silence.

"Oh... You have divorced, then?"

Narcissa felt cold all over. Once again, she checked the room, still finding no evidence of thugs poised to attack. Could the accomplices be wearing invisibility cloaks? She fluttered her eyelids, flicking her gaze from side to side, looking for subtle hints of odd refractions or shadows out of place that might give away the wearers of invisibility cloaks. Nothing. The woman opposite her had dropped her wand into her bag and had made no move to retrieve it. She was obviously planning no magical attack. What could possibly be going on? Narcissa was worried. But she reasoned that if this woman were really Eugenie DeMolay, and if she were ignorant of the circumstances that had led Narcissa to take up residence here, she may not be prejudiced against Narcissa, and may even be inclined to be an ally. Knowing that she could use any friend she could find, Narcissa replied, "Not... exactly. We should talk. The story is more complicated than I could tell quickly."

"Of course," Eugenie said, even more smoothly than Narcissa had spoken, and quickly enough to keep the younger woman from extending an invitation of her own. "Come to my house. If I may impose upon you, perhaps you can help me by carrying one of the heavier items I had wanted to purchase here. We can have coffee and spend some time together. Have you appointments to meet this afternoon?"

"I would like to be home when my son returns from school," Narcissa said thoughtfully. Then she shook her head and laughed at her own caution. "But he is rather mature... I hardly need to watch his every move. I would love to come to your house. And I will be glad to carry something for you."

"Thank you. My age has slowed me," Madame DeMolay said, glancing around the room at the people Narcissa presumed must be muggles. "and one cannot exactly levitate great squashes along the street, can one?"

-

The DeMolay home was quite surprising in its expansiveness, given that the front of the house was hardly more impressive than Narcissa's own. Eugenie led them through a narrow entryway, into a broad living room and from there into an informal dining room that was almost an indoor patio, where chairs of twisted wire supporting delicate round pads sat around a circular cafe table on a stone floor. Wide sliding glass doors led out to the roofless center court and spilled plenty of bright, cheering illumination into the dining area. Madame DeMolay pulled out her wand and levitated her purchases, sending them on toward the kitchen with a swift flick. Just when Narcissa was wondering whether Eugenie lived in and managed this house all alone, a faint voice drifted toward them from what must have been the kitchen. "Madame?"

Without raising her voice, Madame DeMolay asked for coffee for two, and settled comfortably onto one of the cafe chairs, waving Narcissa to a seat opposite.

Puzzled by some of the apparent contradictions in her hostess' situation, not wishing to be rude, but almost unaware that she was speaking aloud, Narcissa asked, "How...?"

Madame DeMolay waved a hand airily, as though to dispel Narcissa's discomfort. "My children are themselves old," she explained with a laugh. "Their children are finding... or have already found... spouses, and homes, and careers of their own. I have great-grandchildren! Though they are both only infants, thank God. What am I to do, keep a manor-house where the traffic is like the streets of Paris? I did that for my children... for their schooling, for their introduction to society, for their establishment of themselves as young adults. Ugh! The parties - how I hated them!"

Narcissa was shocked. She immediately protested, "But... your parties... were magnificent!"

Eugenie smiled warmly. "You are remembering what your mother must have told you. My parties - those I held for myself, long years past - were rather... I believe that 'magnificent' may be going too far. But they were certainly elegant, and my guests were almost always fascinating. But that was a generation ago. Or more, depending on what you consider a generation to be. The parties for my children... they were an obligation I quickly tired of. I was expected to do so much, to live up to so many legends of the past, that once my obligations were over, I left that kind of society as quickly as I could and moved here. And I found that I quite enjoy the life of a small-town great-grandmother. Many of my neighbors think they know who I once was... but they are not really aware of the extent to which my life was so very different. But I had asked of your life, first. You must not allow me to prattle on about myself. Why are you 'Black' once again?"

Narcissa watched the smiling old woman, baffled, wondering if she really did pose some kind of threat. "How do you know...?"

It seemed as though Narcissa was not going to be allowed to ask a complete question that day. Madame DeMolay answered as if she had been waiting for this exact inquiry. "I knew your mother, of course," she explained. With a sly smile she added, "I'll bet you don't remember the first time you met me." Narcissa could only shake her head. So far as she was aware, she had never met Madame DeMolay. "You were too small to understand who I was. But I remember you liked the way I said your name. The French 'R' is different from the English, no? So: Narcissa. You laughed to hear me say it. And many years later I heard of your wedding. How could I not? The Malfoy fortune is legendary even here."

This was not quite enough to satisfy Narcissa's curiosity. "But... in the store, when you said, 'it is you,' I thought you meant only that you recognized me as your new neighbor. How did you know that I was the girl you met so many years before?"

"One of the advantages to being a small-town great-grandmother - and the elder of our area - is the privilege of being... what do you say?... a busybody. When I saw you arrive, I suspected. It was a small matter to make certain. There are always published pictures of society women. But few society women are as attractive as are you, Narcissa. There were plenty of photographs, many quite recent, for me to use to confirm your identity. And, Narcissa... your friend who visited so regularly when you first moved here? I believe I know what appearance he was attempting to project. But he does not look at all like a priest. The style of robe he wears is somewhat similar to a priest's cassock, I will admit. But no practicing Catholic would be misled."

Narcissa swallowed hard. She had been well and truly discovered, not merely by someone who guessed at her identity, but by someone who knew her maiden name and her blood relatives. She had few choices. She could explain her situation and plead with Madame DeMolay to keep her secret, or she could draw her wand and attempt to kill everyone who lived in this house... that is, if the DeMolay home was not equipped with the kind of charms that would prevent such a thing from occurring. Perhaps her expectations were unduly pessimistic due to having being married to Lucius for so long, but Narcissa could not imagine a house belonging to such a prominent person that was not so ensorcelled as to protect its primary resident, at least. And who knew what kinds of defenses Eugenie herself kept on or near her person. No, Narcissa thought, she would have to attempt to make an ally of this woman. And if necessary, kill her when she was away from home and presumably more vulnerable. Her first priority had to be to establish a stronger personal connection with Madame DeMolay. And that would have to begin with more information. "Are you a practicing Catholic yourself?"

Eugenie sighed, and delayed her answer to wait for the coffee to be served. As soon as the server entered the room, Narcissa knew what one portion of the home's security system consisted of. The woman who carried in the tray was nearly two meters tall, and broad shouldered. She was not beefy at all - this was no steroid-enhanced body builder. But her muscles were more clearly defined than most women's, and she moved with a lightness incongruous for her size. Her long blonde hair was woven into a single braid, and her eyes were a brilliant blue. She wore pants, athletic shoes and a woven short-sleeved shirt. She looked like a fitness instructor. Madame DeMolay watched Narcissa stare for a moment, then softly commented, "Jutta is Swedish. By birth as well as extraction. Her French is excellent, however... as is her English," the last comment delivered as a mock warning. Eugenie watched approvingly as the tall blonde poured two coffees and set the cups delicately onto saucers which she placed silently in front of each of the seated women. "She's really quite useful. All she requires is the occasional beating."

As the server returned to a standing position that was nearly as rigid as a military attention, Narcissa wondered, "... who could ever deliver one?"

"Jutta?" Eugenie prompted, lifting her cup close to her face to smell the brew.

"Madame runs her home quite efficiently," Jutta responded instantly. It was the same voice as had drifted out from the kitchen earlier. A light, soft soprano that had made Narcissa imagine a petite girl in a theatrical-costume French maid's uniform. As frail as that voice sounded, there was no doubt about the strength in Jutta's body. And yet the Swede's unquestioning loyalty testified to Madame DeMolay's strength of personality. Narcissa was certain that if Eugenie DeMolay considered it necessary, the frail-looking woman of the house could and would deliver whatever punishment she decreed, to Jutta or to anyone else she felt deserved it.

Eugenie nodded and Jutta strode silently from the room. Narcissa met Madame DeMolay's eyes and waited. The older woman smiled once again before saying anything, and Narcissa found herself enjoying the warm feeling conveyed by that simple expression. For most of her life - and for the last twenty years in particular - smiles among Narcissa's associates had carried almost anything but warmth. There were the challenging smiles given by someone with a political advantage to wield. There were the sarcastic smiles offered in place of congratulations or encouragement. There were the false smiles to be pasted on when facing opponents. There were the cruel smiles her husband showed her when they were alone, smiles that could make her shudder with anticipation... or dread. But Eugenie's smiles reached her eyes, illuminated her face and radiated relaxation and good humor. "I am not a practicing Catholic as you might think of one," Madame DeMolay admitted. "I pray to the Virgin. And I believe that She has interceded for me. But if the Church were to know who I am... specifically, if they realized that I routinely practice magic… they would not want me. So my worship is of a very private nature. I make no donations to the Church in my own name, although some anonymous offerings have made their way into the local cathedral's coffers from my hand. I do not attend regular services, though I do go when I can, at different times of day, on different days of the week, to minimize my chances of being recognized. And so as to prevent friendly, well-meaning people from becoming interested in me, engaging me in conversation, and learning too much about me for either of our own good. But the Church... or, I suppose I could say, my own faith in its teachings… has offered me some comfort, especially during the difficult time following my husband's death. But your own husband - you no longer use his name. What happened?"

"Lucius has fallen into some difficulty involving our government," Narcissa said carefully. "If you went to the trouble of finding recent pictures of me, I believe you must know what sort of difficulty that is. What you may not know is that my house, all of my possessions, and all of my money were seized because of the case against Lucius. I could only imagine that the next seizures would be of myself and my son. I escaped the country with Draco, a case of clothing for each of us and the money in my pocket. With the assistance of my friend - the one who is too obviously not a priest - I was able to obtain that house just down the street and to enroll my son in school. Frankly, I am quite disturbed that you were able to identify me so quickly. I fear that spies may be searching for me. And for Draco. I do not want them to find either of us."

"Ah. The politics of the rich. When I was a girl there was a saying here about government: 'The poor complain that they have no voice... and the rich complain that they have no heads.' It is different for you when you have wealth to seize, enh? You will be pursued. So I am surprised to find you here in France."

"I hardly wished to stay in England," Narcissa said sourly.

"No, no, of course not," Madame DeMolay laughed. "But are we so far away, here? Even for muggles, our nations are now neighbors. A tunnel under the Channel, the fast boats and aeroplanes above... and our people have always had apparation. Many English witches know several apparation points in France. And a great number of French... for all their pretending to be so disdainful of travel amongst our neighbors... know a variety of apparation points in England. When you come to France to hide from the English, it is as though a child had run away from home, only to settle on the next block of houses over from her own."

"It has served me well," Narcissa replied coolly. She was not fond of being scolded, even in such a lighthearted and friendly manner as this. "Besides, I had few options and no time. I am grateful for the help I received."

"Yes. Of course," Madame DeMolay replied sympathetically. "But now that you are here, and safe, you do have time, yes?" She waited for Narcissa's suspicious nod. "With that time, you need to find a new... onh... direction? Is that right? I mean, for a lady such as yourself, you would not say that you need a 'job,' or even a 'career,' would you? It is not a 'situation' for which you search. You need a new life!"

Narcissa had no idea what to say to this. She stared at the woman opposite her, who sat beaming as though her own life were carefree and filled with joy. Narcissa forced her own face to remain expressionless, placid. 'What is all of this?' she wondered again. Had she already been manipulated into a situation from which she would be unable to escape? She doubted that. Though she found it difficult to believe, her own usually accurate sense of danger suggested that there was no threat to her here. And yet... 'a new life.' There was quite a lot implied by such a statement. Was Eugenie a kind of missionary to the wizarding community, prostletizing her own private brand of Catholicism to magic users? Or was her agenda political, or something else altogether? "I'm not quite sure what I really do need," Narcissa said cautiously. "Despite my background, I have been robbed of my wealth. I may need a 'job' to provide me with enough income to survive. I have many skills, but putting them to use is dependent upon social position. Mine has been destroyed. I may need a 'career' to prevent me from sitting at home until I go mad. If the government of Minister Fudge decides there is something to be gained from finding me, I may have to achieve an anonymity well beyond using my maiden name and living in France. I may need a 'situation' into which I may disappear from public view - possibly for years to come."

"Then we are in perfect agreement!" Eugenie enthused. "You need an income, a place to use your unique abilities, and protection from the English Fudge. Bon. You are currently in a period of transition, and you have no pressing obligations. Wonderful. Tell me, have you heard of Aubeneuf-Sarbanes?

Narcissa blinked. The last question was ludicrous. It was like asking an American if she had heard of Coca-Cola; asking a Japanese whether she knew of Mitsubishi. Aubeneuf-Sarbanes had built the current Ministry of Magic building in England, as well as all of the government buildings now being used in France. They had been instrumental in upgrading the floo network two decades ago. They were among the most familiar names in shipping and in the manufacture of many household items. And, unlike many wizard-owned companies, Aubeneuf-Sarbanes made a great deal of money working on muggle projects. Their highways could be found in twelve different countries, and they had expanded and improved over twenty major harbors around the world. Their financial branch's lending program was the only money lender in the entire wizarding world to provide any real competition for Gringott's. With a start, Narcissa realized that Madame DeMolay was waiting for a reply. "Sorry. I thought that was a rhetorical question. Of course I have heard of Aubeneuf-Sarbanes. Who hasn't?"

"Perhaps someone who was not paying attention," Eugenie shrugged. "The only place we really display our name is on our kitchen products."

"Our?" Narcissa asked, quite impressed.

"Well..." Madame DeMolay laughed. "More properly, Mine. I have given the duties of running each division to individual presidents. But they still all report to me. And I retain ownership of over eighty percent of the entire company."

Narcissa was more than impressed by this. She was frankly amazed. Even allowing for a considerable bit of exaggeration on her hostesses' part, anyone who owned a majority of Aubeneuf-Sarbanes would have been a multi-billionaire even if her wealth were measured in galleons, let alone such paltry units such as pounds or francs. "That must represent a sizable fortune."

"Enh," Madame DeMolay dismissed the consideration of the value of her holdings. "The first few millions make a difference. After that, it is simply wealth. What becomes important is what one does with it. And what I intend to do with the wealth I hold is to open new markets for my company, to do business where we have not done business previously. If that were only a matter of selling a self-stirring kettle in a new city, I would not be concerned. But I am currently most interested in gaining public works contracts in the Orient. And for that, I need special people to make and develop the crucial contacts we will need to learn what jobs are becoming available, and to secure the business for us. I will need people with more subtle skills than are possessed by most kitchen-goods salesmen, people who can adopt a less hard-sell approach than most of my product distributors. I need people with social skills and political understanding. People like you, Narcissa."

"I wouldn't be too sure," Narcissa countered lightly. "How do your people work in such a situation? Is it all by floo? Do you go to visit individuals in their offices? I'm afraid I wouldn't know how to begin."

"Narcissa," Eugenie scolded teasingly. "I would not put you on cold calls or floo work. Not only do I have too much respect for your family, but it would be a waste of talent. Your expertise would be utilized once we had introduced ourselves to our potential clients. Specifically, once we were ready to invite these people to spend an evening with us, dining and enjoying conversation. How would you like to spend the next year in Indonesia?"

Narcissa was no longer merely suspicious. There was something definitely wrong with the situation in which she found herself. One simply did not go from a chance meeting at the grocery to a job offer in the course of a single conversation. Keeping her tone light and bantering, Narcissa asked, "Madame, have you been stalking me?"

Eugenie smiled, nodded, and with evident relief said, "Yes. I was so glad that you finally came out of your house. I was beginning to fear that I would have to knock on your door and offer you a cake as a welcome to the neighborhood. I would have been uncomfortable doing that, and I am sure that, had I done so, I would have been dismissed before I was able to explain what was on my mind."

Slowly, carefully, not wanting to show how upset she was, Narcissa sipped her coffee and then spoke over the rim of her cup, "You were... watching me?"

Eugenie pursed her lips slightly and shook her head, every bit the practical businesswoman. "Nothing improper. I certainly did not look through your windows. I could not even see your door. All I had was a simple charm that made a sound any time you ventured out of your house. And I did not chase you to this place. You moved here. I recognized you and realized that you could be an asset. So I cast my little charm. I had several false alarms when you answered your door. Each time you immediately disappeared back inside your house once again. But once you actually left home to travel in public, I felt it was safe to approach you. And so it was. I have told you who I am and what my interest is. And I ask you once again: How do you feel about living in Indonesia for the next year?"

Narcissa scowled. "I don't think I would be very effective in Indonesia, Madame. I don't even speak..." she frowned more deeply in frustration, "... Indonesian."

"Bahasa," Eugenie corrected crisply. "And beyond 'Selamat sore,' as you welcome your guests and wish them good evening, there will be little cause for you to speak it. The Wesias have all taken to using English for their trading, though most of those I have met also speak French.

"Doesn't 'wesia' mean 'warrior?'

Eugenie smiled slyly. "You see? You know more Bahasa than you thought. And yes, wesia is the name of the so-called warrior caste. But to the Indonesians, warriors include traders and minor nobility - exactly the people we need to work with." Madame DeMolay relaxed in her chair and sipped coffee. She had placed her offer on the table, it would be up to her guest to understand that such opportunities came seldom and would not be available forever.

Narcissa understood those things quite well. She also understood that her obligations as a mother overrode most other concerns in her life. "I don't believe that moving to Indonesia would be fair to my son," she explained, hoping that there might be some other opportunity for her somewhere within Madame DeMolay's immense holdings.

"Perhaps not," Eugenie said sadly, then brightened once again. "Or... perhaps we could arrange for him to remain here. He could stay at your home, in a place in which he is already comfortable. He could attend his school, and you could begin your new life - possibly with a new name and a brand new, perfectly respectable history that would not interest your government in the least."

"Madame, I will have to think about this. Discuss it with my son. Take some time to consider my options," Narcissa said pleasantly. Even as she spoke, she was thinking bitterly, 'I have already admitted to this woman that I have few options and that I was out of time when I moved here. What has changed since my arrival in France? Only our meeting, and the Madame's generous offer. So what if I am sick of hosting parties and making small talk while the real business gets done behind my back? What if I am as sick of that as she says she was of hosting her own childrens' celebrations? What choice do I have?' She smiled politely and sipped more coffee.

"Of course, I understand. I hope we will discuss this soon," Madame DeMolay replied, just as pleasantly as Narcissa had spoken. But the confidence in her manner telegraphed that the older woman had already determined exactly how many options Narcissa had available. She smiled and sipped her coffee, content to wait patiently for the time being.


	18. Chapter 18

_The reviewers ask…_

How long will this story be?

Even after multiple inquiries, I hadn't wanted to reveal that bit of information, since I was well aware that if I did, thoughtful readers would be able to anticipate the story's structure and that might spoil some surprises.

But if you read a printed book, you can tell how many pages are left. If you're watching a movie, you know how long it is going to run. The good writers' challenge is to overcome the strictures of structure and keep the work interesting to the last word.

So here it is. This story will be 22 chapters long. The chapters following this one push the limit of acceptable file size, so there's still quite a bit of story left.

As always, I thank you all for your comments and criticisms. It is frankly thrilling to receive feedback on my work, and each review drives me on to further writing (an original story is in progress now).

But you had logged on to get to Chapter 18, didn't you? Well, then….

-

Chapter 18

That Sunday, Fred and George Weasley returned to the Burrow to join their family for dinner. They could smell the rich aroma of beef stew, but the house was nearly silent, without the familiar clattering of bespelled utensils their mother usually kept working in the kitchen up until time to serve the evening meal, and without the usual shouting between rooms that comprised most of the Weasley family's conversations any time they were not actually seated around a table together. The twins looked into the kitchen to find it deserted. They walked out to the living room to find their father standing calmly, waiting for them.

"Hi, Dad!"

"How are you?"

"Where's Mom?"

"When's dinner?"

The swift patter of questions suddenly ran out as both twins realized that their father was not attempting to answer, but merely looking at them gravely. Arthur waited for the quiet to establish itself, sighed, and very quietly answered. "I arranged for your mother to be out of the house for a few moments. It wasn't easy, and we haven't much time before she returns, so to make tonight as pleasant as possible, I will ask you questions and you will answer them, quickly and succinctly. There will be no verbal games and no delays or, by God, I'll continue this interrogation with your mother in earshot, and you'll never hear the end of it."

Neither twin said anything. This seemed to satisfy Arthur, as he gave them one ponderous nod and began his questioning. "How is it that the two of you obtained information regarding the Death Eaters' next major attack?"

"Who told you that?" George demanded, outraged.

"So it is true," Arthur replied, unperturbed by his son's upset. "My sources are not your concern at the moment. I want the truth from you both."

Fred continued, allowing his brother to maintain his outraged pose. "As you might expect from us, it began with a prank. We placed a listening device on someone who was on his way to a meeting. He went, and we got our first hint of what we had stumbled onto. Now, this first meeting was totally innocuous. Just a bunch of kids..."

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Arthur interrupted, nearly growling in anger. "Does a 'bunch of kids' meet in Voldemort's Throne Room?"

"Yes, in this case, they do," George countered, fighting to maintain an even tone through rising irritation. "I'll tell you how it happened. There was a beer party at Vincent Crabbe's house. You may remember the boy we went to school with. I'm sure you're acquainted with his father." Arthur's look of disgust testified to the correctness of George's supposition. "The kids showed up at the party, went to get their beers and touched a piece of rope that turned out to be a portkey. It zapped the lot of them to a room where they got a recruitment speech: 'Join The Death Eaters.' It wasn't like a press-gang. No one was captured and made into a slave. Nobody got hurt. No one was even allowed to join up that day. The bastards running the recruitment effort even zapped the kids back to their party after they delivered their appeal. But it just so happens that our listening device looks exactly like a used piece of chewing gum. Our victim pulled it off of himself and stuck it somewhere at the meeting. And when the kids left, the Ear stayed. And we listened to a whole bunch of nothing for several days until the big guys showed up. And that's when we heard their plan."

Arthur's face showed as much disappointment as anger. "And you thought that Voldemort - perhaps the single most paranoid person in the entire world - would not notice a piece of chewed-up gum stuck in his throne room? In fact, you're telling me that you believed Voldemort would not only fail to notice, he would fail to use such a thing to mislead his enemies?"

"That's exactly what I believe," Fred responded defiantly. "Where do people stick gum? It's probably under something or in a cranny somewhere. It's between two stones or under a seat. And no one is going to notice it. Proof? There are wads of gum on the desks at Hogwarts today that date from the time you were a student there. And that's despite the fact that Filch goes around with a scraper and harvests gum wads hours at a time for days on end all summer long."

"And what if our Ear was discovered?" George added reasonably. "It wouldn't be Voldemort who found it. It's Peter Pettigrew that does all the work in the place. During the dull days we heard him getting his orders all day, every day. I mean, Voldemort's 'Headquarters' isn't exactly a hive of activity. It's Voldy and Wormtail in their cozy cottage hideaway. And they had just portkeyed a bunch of kids into there. Kids who were quite likely chewing gum when they arrived. What would you think in that situation if you saw a squashed wad of pink goo stuck on your wall? Would you think: 'Ahah! A spy device such as I have never before seen! I'll trace it back to its source by casting powerful magical spells that haven't been invented yet?' Or would you think: 'Ugh. Gum. I'll throw this out with the garbage?' I believe that if our Ear had been discovered we would be listening to the sounds of the garbage right now."

"And I believe that what you've been listening to is garbage that Voldemort has been deliberately feeding you. Who was your victim that carried the device into the meeting?"

Both twins merely shook their heads, matching their father's glare with their own.

"Boys," Arthur argued, "you have just told me that whoever it was is innocent of any wrongdoing... so far. All he did - by your story - was go to a beer party and listen to a speech. Oh, and stick gum on someone else's property, but we'll overlook that for now considering whose property we're talking about. I can't see why you feel the need to protect him. So, I have to conclude that you're protecting yourselves. You've been making deals you're ashamed to admit to, and you finally got in over your heads with this one. Is this something I have to speak with the Ministry about?" The twins shook their heads in unison once again. "Are you going to tell me who your victim... or accomplice... or customer is?" The same headshake was his only reply. "Fine," Arthur said, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'll have your mother get it out of you."

"Dad!" both twins protested at once.

"What?" Arthur snapped.

"Do you really want to go upsetting the woman?" George pleaded.

"No, not really," Arthur said with as little concern as if the three of them had been speculating about the price of cheese on the moon. "I went through quite a lot to buy myself a little peace this evening. But the two of you aren't interested in cooperating, so..."

"Dad, I can guarantee you, we're protecting him, not ourselves," Fred begged.

"So he's male... and most likely a sentient being. That narrows it down quite a bit," Arthur reflected with patient satisfaction.

"Dad... please... not Mom."

"Why not? She'll know sooner or later. She's a part of the Order. She'll be called out to fight with the rest of us. And if your spy work is all a load of shite, she'll be cut down when the trap springs, just like the rest of us. We're facing the next war, boys. We can't go in half-blind, distrusting our intelligence. We need to know, now, as much as possible. Spit it out. Who did you use?"

The twins shared a glance of only an instant. They knew they were beaten. They had to hope that they could appeal to their father's reasonable nature and avoid their mother's emotional excess. "It was Draco Malfoy."

Fred and George enjoyed a glorious moment during which their father was stunned. They could savor the shock on his face, cherish the confusion in his eyes. But Arthur Weasley was recovering quickly. Before he had a chance to say anything else, his sons compounded his shock as much as they possibly could.

"He's been working with us."

"Since he disappeared."

"That's why he disappeared."

"In order to work with us."

Despite the multiple blows to his composure, Arthur was forcing his mind back into gear, and engaging his tongue. "Who... are... 'us'?"

"Me."

"And Me."

"And Harry Potter."

"And Severus Snape."

"And Remus Lupin."

"And, as we said, Draco Malfoy."

"We're going to kill Voldemort."

"Well... Harry is going to kill him."

"But we're all going to make it possible together."

Arthur stared at his sons waiting for them to laugh and say it was all a lie. Hoping that they would laugh and say it was all a lie. But behind his baffled expression, his mind was racing, putting together what few facts he possessed, and realizing how well they fit into this new framework. "Lupin... and Snape. Potter... and Malfoy. And you two. By all that's good in the world, boys, if you actually accomplished that - if you really got that group of people to do anything together toward a common goal, you may well be able to kill that bastard, after all, because you have accomplished a miracle already."

"Arthur!"

All three Weasley males in the living room jumped as Molly's voice cut through the house from the kitchen door to where they stood.

"Dad?" George murmured hopefully.

"Let me think," Arthur practically whispered. "Quiet for now, though, right?" His sons nodded vigorously.

"Will you help me carry these things?" Molly shouted in irritation.

"Better than that," Arthur called back cheerfully. "I'll send you two strong men. Fred and George are here!"

The twins trotted through the house to see how they could help their mother. Both felt as though they had dodged a bullet by keeping her out of their last conversation. But they had a new worry. What would their father do with what he now knew?

-

Most of the hallways running through Beauxbatons were crowded with the between-class crush of students that Monday morning. Draco Malfoy had long abhorred crowds, and had learned within the first few days of school what routes to take that would be less travelled. For this particular change of class, he had chosen a path that would mean several hundred extra steps. But the additional effort paid off in terms of being able to walk most of the way alone.

He needed the break between each class for a lot more than merely walking between classrooms. His command of French, which he had often bragged was like a second language to him, was sufficient for study; he could pass his classes without undue strain from having to search for words. But Draco had not yet learned how to express any of his personality in French, at least in the context of the classroom. The subtle insults and innuendoes, the sarcasm and superior attitude which had been crucial to his conversation at Hogwarts were just out of his reach while speaking the gallic tongue at Beauxbatons. And when he did manage to fire off a stinging comment, the students here just didn't get it. He had insulted one boy in particular at least a dozen times, and the dull git had actually laughed at each bon mot as though Draco's cutting comments were nothing more than jokes. Draco wondered whether he needed to completely relearn this country's language or whether the people here were simply used to confronting each other with a mountain of attitude. Not knowing how to express himself, not understanding how others perceived what he did say, not having any of his old sycophants or hangers-on, and not being able to use the Malfoy name to impress and intimidate others left Draco tired by the end of his first class of the day, and positively weary by the time he could leave for home.

He felt further isolated from his classmates by the very fact that he did go home when classes were done each day. A majority of students lived on campus, as Draco himself had done at Hogwarts, and the shared dinners and breakfasts, the shared time in the various common rooms, and the sharing of accommodations by assigned roommates all fostered a closer relationship between those who lived at school... and increased Draco's own feeling of being left out. He needed some way to overcome that emotional disadvantage. His long walks between classes helped him relax, regain his focus and go into his next class with the maximum possible determination to distinguish himself and dominate the proceedings.

Today, there was another concern that occupied his mind, burdening him with further distractions. His mother had met one of the neighbors last week and had apparently been offered a job, though nothing about the neighbor or the offer seemed so straighforward as it sounded at first. His mother may have to go to Indonesia. That was interesting. She may leave him here in France. That was a situation ripe with promise. But she may want him to move into a dormitory at Beauxbatons. He wasn't really sure how he felt about that. He considered the idea from as many perspectives as he could think of as he hurried toward his next class.

Draco's long detour through the deserted hallway took him past a small room whose intended function was a mystery. It was currently empty, and had no door hung in its doorframe. It was too large for a broom closet, too small to hold a class, and had no plumbing that might allow it to serve as restoom, kitchen or laundry. Draco thought it may have served a religious purpose once, though what it might have looked like then, or what it may have been equipped with, he could not have guessed. He had passed that inexplicable room on several previous days, had noticed that it was always empty, and had promptly lost interest in it. He didn't spare it a glance as he hurried past. But the mysterious room was not empty that day.

"Malfoy!"

Even as he heard the insistent whisper of his name, Draco was weighing the possibilities of who was whispering and what they wanted. Whoever it was certainly expected Draco to whirl in shock and fear, so he would definitely deny them that bit of enjoyment. He briefly considered ignoring the call, pretending that 'Malfoy' held no meaning for him. He rejected the notion immediately. Anyone who knew his name would likely be quite sure of who he was. He turned slowly, with a disdainful smirk, and saw six girls gathered in the room. The one he had expected to have betrayed him, Artemis Thymescria, wasn't there, but that didn't mean she hadn't pointed him out to these others. The one he had hoped to see, the half-Veela, Fleur, wasn't there either. He took a moment to regard the group with his most arrogant look. He decided that these girls, while reasonably attractive, all lacked the astounding beauty of their tri-wizard representative. He recognized none of them, which in England would have meant that they were socially unimportant. Here, it merely underscored his ignorance of proper society. At least two, he was fairly certain, were seventh-years, though at least one of the others was almost definitely younger than he. Draco had to admit that the group had the advantage of him. They, at least, knew his name, while he remained ignorant of all of theirs. "Oui?"

"I know you, Draco Malfoy," said the girl who appeared to be the oldest of the group. "I saw you at your old school, Hogwarts. Why are you named 'Black,' now?"

"Family troubles," Draco drawled, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug as though the subject bored him. "I live with my mother, now. Her last name before she married was Black. She uses that name, now. So, I do, too." He motioned down the hallway. "I have class. May we walk?"

The girls surrounded him as they all made their way back toward the more crowded parts of school. Draco found the sensation of being attended by a half dozen girls to be quite to his liking. As they walked, the other apparent seventh-year girl asked "Your mother is divorced from your father?"

"That's rather between the two of them, don't you think?" Draco responded.

"Your father. Do you speak with him?" someone else wanted to know.

"Not in the past few days," Draco shot back with irritation.

"Will he be executed?"

Draco stopped walking immediately. Unsure of who had asked the last question, he tried to glare at the entire group and gave up the effort as impossible. "What do I look like, a...?" His search for a sarcastic simile fell apart. "The case against my father is totally unfair. What they did to my family is totally unfair. What happened to me because of it is totally unfair. I don't know what they'll do to my father, and I don't think I can do anything about it whatever they decide." To his own surprise, Draco seemed to have won the group's sympathy. They all looked at him with compassion. The experience was so unusual for him that Draco began to feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"But... are you supposed to be secret?" the youngest of the group asked worriedly. "Is no one supposed to know that you are 'Malfoy?' Could we invite you to a gathering as your father's son?"

Draco nearly groaned out loud. He had suspected that these girls were some sort of French anti-Voldemort league, offended by the very presence of a Malfoy on their turf. Instead, the very opportunity he had most hoped for was being held out to him... and he couldn't accept it. Bitterly, he said, "I wish you could. I wish I could accept in my own name. I wish I could speak out, defend my father, defend my family... defend myself! I wish I could take my place in French society as I had in the society of England. But I cannot. The English government believes that I have money hidden somewhere, and they wish to steal it from me. I would be in danger any time I publicly acknowledged my true identity. Those who hunt me would not bother themselves with following the law. Mine would not be a case for extradition or any other ponderous court proceeding. I would be captured, apparated to a dungeon, tortured until I revealed the location of my wealth, then killed."

As he spoke, Draco noticed something quite odd, and very unexpected. The girls' eyes lit up as though this were the most romantic story they had ever heard. When he derided the English government, their faces burned with outrage. When he described his likely fate should he be discovered, they became angry.

"Perfide Albion," muttered one. The others agreed with a threatening rumble of curses.

"We will help you, Draco Black," announced the oldest. "We will see to it that you are given the chance for your revenge!"

Draco, who had not thought in terms of revenge - except against Voldemort, for failing to help Lucius - was quite taken aback. And since it seemed that, one way or another, the Dark Lord would be eliminated, revenge was far from his mind. "What you could do," he suggested, "what I would prefer... or, that is... what would help me the most, is if you could invite me to a gathering as my mother's son, rather than my father's. That is, as Draco Black rather than Draco Malfoy."

"It is not so simple," the youngest said sadly. "In order to invite you as Black, I would have to explain that your mother was your father's wife. So... you would be 'Malfoy' in either case." With an elegant shrug, she closed the subject.

Another girl suggested, "I can introduce you to some men you will want to know. My cousin fought alongside them in Rwanda and in the Balkans. They have experience in fighting and in covert operations. Whether you think your cause would be better served by assassinating your Minister of Magic, or by exterminating the judges that passed sentence on your father, these men will know how to proceed."

'Mordred's Bastard Son!' Draco thought desperately. 'I thought Hogwarts had intrigue.' Soothingly, he said, "My father's sentence has not yet been passed. Reason may yet prevail. The government wants his money more than his life. If they can find a way to rob him and yet leave him alive, they may decide to do just that." That bit of speech had been nothing but improvisation, a way to forestall any meeting with the unknown French fighters, who frankly sounded more dangerous than useful. But his rambling had brought up a point he had never before considered: What if the court did decide to confiscate Lucius' wealth and then did not execute him? What if he received time in Azkaban? What if he were simply turned out into the street, penniless? The prospect made Draco's skin crawl. It was more disturbing than the threat he had almost come to accept: his father's death at the hands of the Ministry. What sort of man would Lucius Malfoy be without a fortune? Draco could not imagine it at all. Attempting to appear nonchalant in the face of his personal disaster, he raised an eyebrow and calmly told the group, "What would really help me right now the most... that is, if you are - so much to my regret - unable to invite me to your party..." He stopped to smile and saw that several of the girls found that pause very interesting. "Could you each tell me your name?"

-

The atmosphere in the meeting house at Grimmauld Place was tense. As Arthur Weasley entered the room that had been dubbed the Command Center for the Order of the Phoenix, he saw Mad-Eye Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt arguing as Albus Dumbledore looked on, bemused. He smiled at his wife, who rolled her eyes and tilted her head toward the argument in progress. Arthur looked back apologetically, hoping she had not had to endure this for too long.

Dumbledore broke up the argument by the simple expedient of greeting the new arrival and gently guiding Alastor and Kingsley toward the rest of the group with a hand on each of their shoulders. "Arthur... How was the... Ministry... today?" he wheezed, moving toward the table around which sat Arabella Figg, Dedalus Diggle and Mundungus Fletcher. Nymphadora Tonks and Emmeline Vance broke off their conversation and moved closer to the general gathering.

"Tedious," Arthur replied, with a failed attempt at a smile. "So far as Misuse of Muggle Artifacts goes, it's all guns and automobiles these days. I used to get cases where someone had charmed an electric can opener or a water heater to..." he saw the warning look from Molly, and quickly finished. "... Never mind that, we're doing fine. Nothing came up that couldn't be fixed. And anyway, I'm here, now. What's on the agenda?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he spoke. He knew that Arthur was perfectly aware of what everyone wanted to know. "Molly tells me you had an opportunity to speak with Fred and George. What did you learn?"

Arthur glanced at Molly, and saw that she was as determined as ever. He had wanted to say as little as possible, to give his sons the opportunity to work out whatever plan they had. In short, to give them the benefit of the doubt. But Molly had been adamant. The Order had worked toward Voldemort's defeat since the last war. Gathered together, they were a versatile, multi-talented, and quite dangerous group of combatants. If anyone had a chance to defeat the Death Eaters and their monstrous leader, the Order was the most likely choice. They had to know as much as possible. "It started with a prank," Arthur began, and saw Molly relax into her seat, still watchful, but satisfied that her husband was going to give the Order the information they needed. "But it wasn't what the twins may have led you to believe. It was no stooge that carried the device into Voldemort's lair. And he didn't take it in to a Death Eater meeting. The gathering he attended was part of a recruitment drive during which the Death Eaters attempted to attract young followers who might become recruits once they had finished school. And the one who carried in the spy device was Draco Malfoy."

Chaos. Voices raised in indistinguishable babble. Molly remained silent. Dumbledore did not speak. Arthur waited for the hubbub to die down so that he might continue. But everyone else had something to say about Arthur's revelation. When Alastor and Kingsley began shouting at each other, Albus called the meeting back to order.

"Wait," Dumbledore croaked, and the entire Order respected his request, although everyone present noted that the old wizard's voice lacked the strength they were used to hearing from him. The gathering began quieting immediately, but it took nearly a full minute for them to fall silent. "This cannot be good, Arthur," Dumbledore explained sorrowfully. "How did your sons know that the conspirator with whom they plotted was... in fact... Draco Malfoy?"

Arthur sighed. He knew that once he had opened this particular can of worms, that he would be hooked this way, played like a fish through a long interrogation. But if nothing else, he wanted to accomplish one thing this evening: he wanted to make sure the Order did not have to drag Fred and George into this headquarters to be given a third degree by Dumbledore... or worse, by Moody and Shacklebolt. Arthur hadn't put the twins though as thorough a questioning as he was in for, but he knew his sons, knew their caution, knew the way they worked. He was confident that he could answer for them and be correct in almost every case. "They were with him for long enough periods to rule out polyjuice," he began. "And they knew Draco personally. An imposter under some more permanent type of glamour would have given himself away. They saw the boy both before and after his mission. Draco was still Draco after he had placed the device."

The eyes of the others in the room swung from Arthur back to Dumbledore as though watching a tennis match. Albus looked genuinely disappointed at having to oppose the claims Arthur was making on behalf of his sons, but the old man proceeded as though given no choice. "Even if we can accept that Draco Malfoy was... ah... himself... how can we assume that he did not deliberately act against your sons' interests in this case? He is a Malfoy, inheritor of an exalted position in the Death Eater hierarchy. And he has been rather outspoken in his contempt for your own family, Arthur. How can we know that he was not cooperating with Voldemort, and only pretending to assist your sons?"

Arthur knew he had to stand firm at this moment more than at any other point of this discussion. He had to convince the others, even if Albus himself remained skeptical. "You can find the answer by looking at the boy. And by examining his supposed 'heritage.' I say that, without his father to push him into it, Draco Malfoy has no more interest in becoming a Death Eater than any other bright, sane, young man." Arthur looked around the room, pleased to see that his mention of sanity had awakened some listeners who had begun to lose interest in the argument, presupposing that Dumbledore was correct, and that any Malfoy had to be purely evil by nature. Arthur pressed on quickly, while he still had their attention. "Being a storm trooper under a 'dark' lord holds some appeal for the stupid, especially those with little imagination. But Voldemort knew from the beginning that he couldn't run his entire organization with idiots. He needed a few followers with intelligence to manage the rest of the herd. Most of the time, in order to get smart people he had to settle for the ones who were completely mad. The LeStranges are a perfect example. They weren't stupid. They were insane. They loved the destruction the Death Eaters wrought. They reveled in the hatred which is the primary emotion that Death Eaters generate. A dangerous combination: brilliant and barking mad. But occasionally, Voldemort would hit a kind of jackpot. Someone whose intelligence was high, whose insanity was manageable, and whose prejudices and hatreds paralleled the manifesto Voldemort put forth. Someone like Lucius Malfoy. But look at Lucius' life! Look at who he was surrounded by as a Death Eater. People he had nothing but contempt for, like Goyle or Crabbe. People whom he hated, like Severus Snape. And people of whom he was justifiably afraid, like the LeStranges. Draco saw the results of his father's choice to join the 'Opposition' played out in his own home for years. Why would he want to join the same unsatisfying organization? To be as miserable as his father?" Arthur could be persuasive when he wished, and he believed he had inherited some of his maternal grandfather's way of telling a story that kept listeners involved. He met each pair of eyes in his audience, and saw that they were following his tale, at least giving him a chance to convince them. Then he heard heavy footsteps approaching the meeting along the hallway. 'Not now,' he thought. 'This is the worst time for him to arrive.' But Arthur had no choice but to continue, to make his points and stand up for his sons.

"Draco is arrogant, stubborn, and filled with prejudices of his own. Blame his wealth and social position for most of that, but give him some credit for not blindly accepting every precept of hatred Lucius fed him. Draco can be petty and selfish. But remember that he's only just turned eighteen years old. Your whole experience of him, Albus, has been while he was but a child. Petty and selfish? Sounds like a typical child to me. But even as a petty, selfish child he was demonstrably intelligent and arguably sane. So why do I say he was not working as Voldemort's pawn? Because he would have no interest in doing so. And without his father to force him, he wouldn't have to. For all his faults, he's not evil."

A huge form stomped into the room, squeezing through the hall doorway and standing stooped to avoid the ceiling. "An' whar' abou' Buckbeak, an' him tryin' to have 'im killed an' all?" thundered Rubeus Hagrid, arriving late for the meeting once again, but this time uncharacteristically furious. The half-giant didn't have much need for anger most of the time. He was huge and tremendously strong, so few people risked irritating him. Moreover, Hagrid's was a gentle soul, more inclined to sympathy than enmity, more likely to offer support than to seek retribution. But Draco Malfoy had gotten so thoroughly onto Hagrid's bad side due to the hippogriff incident of three years before that the half-giant was unlikely to ever forgive the boy.

Arthur looked up at the ceiling, deliberately avoiding the eyes of everyone else in the room. "Ah, yes. Buckbeak. I was just about to discuss that. If you are feeling up to it, that is."

"Arthur..." Molly said warningly, but her husband acted as if he had not heard her.

"Up to it?" Hagrid rumbled. "I don't have to feel 'Up to it' to talk abou' Buckbeak. 'E was a fine one, 'e was."

"I'm sure he was," Arthur agreed smoothly. "But we were considering the boy. Let's think about him as he arrived for Care of Magical Creatures three years ago. Here's the richest boy in the nation - give or take a few million galleons. From the most prestigious family in the United Kingdom - give or take a social rating point or two. He attends the most prestigious magical school in the world. He shows up for his first day of an important class and finds that his teacher - who has been banned from using magic by the Ministry itself - is a half-breed dropout..."

"Ah was expelled!" Hagrid thundered.

"Even worse!" Arthur shot back. "Banned, expelled, and putting children face to face with an animal that could have killed the lot of them had it cared to!"

Hagrid looked absolutely stricken. He sat motionless, his mouth hanging open, tears gathering in his eyes. Of all the regrets he had expressed about the incident, the thought that he might have exposed any of the children - other than Draco Malfoy - to danger had been the most bitter.

"I know your side of the story," Arthur said quietly, "and I hold with your ideas of what young people ought to be able to do, and what we should expect of them. And for the most part, your instincts were right. None of the other students were hurt, and Harry Potter actually rode the hippogriff and returned to the yard safely. But Draco's actions stemmed from his feeling that Hogwarts had not provided him with a suitable teacher. His vindictiveness was directed at you, the animal was no more than a means to remove you from employment as a Hogwarts teacher. And I submit to you all that a boy who could grasp the situation well enough to use such a magnificent creature as a weapon would certainly be able to understand the advantage of spying on the Death Eaters' meetings - and would have the determination to deploy a listening device in Voldemort's throne room."

Dumbledore had moved to Hagrid's side and laid his hand on the half-giant's shoulder in a comforting gesture. "But... surely, Arthur... you see the flaws in your... ah... contention. If Draco could use a hippogriff as a tool with which to... attack his teacher... how small a step is it to betraying the humans with which he is... acquainted?" A general murmur of assent ran through the room. Underneath that sound was the heavy bass rumble of Hagrid, grumbling as he recalled Buckbeak's narrow escape from the executioner. No one present cared much for any Malfoy. They would be hard pressed to trust Draco, even in the face of much more convincing evidence. "Besides..." Dumbledore continued. "We know that Draco Malfoy appeared in London... soon after his disappearance from his home. Then he suddenly vanished into the lair of his Dark Lord."

"Noooo..." Arthur said slowly. "What we know is that one of your devices suddenly registered Draco's presence in or around London, and then just as suddenly registered nothing at all. With respect, Albus, that sounds more like instrument failure than a reliable trace. Hell, an expert apparator would find it difficult to show up and vanish again that quickly. And Draco doesn't yet apparate, even on a novice level. Even if he did arrive quickly and then disappear suddenly, how many explanations are there for that? Did someone apparate while holding on to him? You assume so when you say he went to Voldemort's hideout, but think of how many other places he could go. How well do your detectors work when someone uses the Knight Bus, or muggle transportation, for that matter? What if he went through the Chunnel? Or went beneath the streets to take the Underground? Damnit, Albus, what if he were relaxing in his new home and reached through a floo into a friend's house in London, then leaned back again without stepping through? He could have reached out to take a beer from one of his delinquent friends without moving his feet from Australia - or wherever he was flooing from."

Perhaps it was the mention of Australia, and the reminder of the old, stale argument over where the Malfoys could have disappeared to, but Dumbledore's face turned stern and his eyes went from twinkling to steely hard. "I understand that you want to believe your sons, Arthur, but their story just won't do," Albus said sternly.

"Your 'Malfoy detectors' won't do either, Albus. Because they showed nothing at all during the time I know that Draco Malfoy was in my sons' warehouse, not far from Diagon Alley."

Everyone in the room looked at Dumbledore, waiting for some response. Then they continued staring with concern for the old wizard. For a moment, it was as though Albus' mind had left his body. He stood blankly, face lifeless, eyes glazed. Then, just as Alastor Moody was reaching out toward him, wondering what kind of first aid would be most appropriate, Dumbledore murmured. "The warehouse. I understand. Their receiver would be there, as well." His face once again became animated and everyone present was reminded what tremendous strength of personality resided in the old wizard's frail-looking frame. "We have to treat your sons' spy device information as untrustworthy," Dumbledore declared, "because it depends on too many unknowns: Malfoy, the device itself... as well as Voldemort's suspicious failure to find it once it was left in his lair... not to mention the fact that we do not possess a record of the Death Eaters' meeting, but only the report of those untrained observers who listened in on it."

Arthur's face burned red. The man he had considered his leader and had thought to be his friend had just insulted his sons rather seriously. "And what would Voldemort gain by putting us on our guard against a Halloween attack?" he said angrily.

"One of two things," Dumbledore replied calmly. "They may wish us to mobilize our strength on Halloween and then relax our guard when the Death Eaters do not strike on that date. They will then attack once we are convinced they are not going to do so. Or they may wish us to believe that we have plenty of time to ready ourselves, when in fact, they are planning to launch their attack earlier."

Arthur glanced around the room, but saw no one making any move to participate. For better or worse, he was the devil's advocate for this discussion. "The Death Eaters are very concerned with significant dates. They always plan their major actions to coincide with some important day on the calendar: Walpurgisnacht, Halloween, the World Cup..."

"What better way to mislead us than to change that pattern?" Dumbledore countered with a slight smile. He was feeling much more confident making these last points, and the twinkle had already begun to reach his eyes once again.

"But you do believe that they are getting ready. That they're coming to attack us all, and soon."

"I believe that they are building their strength, yes. But we do not have... the resources... to remain on full alert from now until the Death Eaters... decide to strike. We will have to remain vigilant, yes. We will all have to be prepared to awaken in the middle of the night, leave our regular employment in mid-workday, whatever is necessary. But that is all we can do."

"What about a special extra watch on Halloween night?" Arthur suggested sourly.

"If you would like to stand one," Dumbledore allowed graciously.

Arthur left the meeting feeling as though he had betrayed his own children for no good reason. Molly caught up to him before he apparated away and slipped her hand into his, meeting his eyes, silently comforting and reassuring her husband. But she could tell her efforts were not enough. "Let's go home," Arthur said, his voice dull, defeat written in his face. "We can talk there." Molly nodded and with a double clap of collapsing air, the two vanished.

-

At Hogwarts, having returned from the meeting of the Order, Albus Dumbledore sat in the large room behind the Great Hall. That room had been transformed over the years into a place of refuge in which the faculty could temporarily escape the pressures of their duties without retiring to their quarters. When the coffee maker had been added, Professor Flitwick had taken to calling the faculty gathering place the 'Teachers' Common Room.' But no one followed suit, and he soon stopped using the appellation. Nonetheless, the room had to be called something, and gradually 'Lounge' had become the accepted term. At that moment, Dumbledore was making use of the furniture in a way that lent great affirmation to the name. He sprawled in an armchair, feet up on an ottoman, chin on his chest, arms hanging limply. Minerva McGonagall sat upright in a wooden chair at the dining table across the room from where the Headmaster relaxed. She was asking about the Order meeting, and for every inquiry Albus answered, Minerva seemed to have two more to follow. Dumbledore finally got around to describing the way the meeting broke up, his final comments, and his instructions to the Order members. He was certain that Minerva would have no more questions after that, and apparently she did not. She made a succinct assessment, instead.

"Albus, you silly old fool."

"Hrmm?" he mumbled, forcing himself upright in the soft chair, letting his feet rest on the floor.

"You heard me." Most of the time, Minerva found Albus' absent-minded professor pose charming. She had no patience with it that evening. "We cannot remain fully alert forever. Quite right. But you have been waiting for the next Dark Wizards' Great Halloween Assault for twenty years! You know Tom Riddle has his body back. You know that he's been more aggressive, risking his followers on things like the attack on the Ministry last spring. You know he has no interest in seeing either of the Prophesy Boys - Harry Potter or Neville Longbottom - finish schooling at Hogwarts. To me, that means there are only two dates on which our Next War can begin. Halloween of next year or Halloween of this year. Why would the Death Eaters wait?"

Albus spread his hands, beginning to deliver once again the argument he had gone through so many times before. "Neither you nor I, nor the Order all together, will defeat our enemy..."

"That's Tom Riddle," Minerva snapped. "What about all the others? The sleepers, the double agents, the escapees from Azkaban? Those people are our responsibility. If they come out this Halloween in their little masks, rallying to their bloody Morsmordre, we need to be there to stop them, to contain them and to kill them."

Albus could see that delaying techniques would not work any longer. "And we will," he said, drawing an arch look from McGonagall. "I'm serious. Quite apart from this ridiculous Malfoy - Weasley escapade, Halloween is the most likely time for an attack to be launched. We will call our participants to attention on October twenty-ninth. If there is to be a Halloween attack, there will likely be a revel on the previous night. The night before that is the most likely time for the kidnappings of potential victims to be tormented at the revel."

"Really," Minerva said tartly. "In other words, exactly what the Weasley twins told you."

Dumbledore shot McGonagall a reproving glance. "What they did not tell me was that they have introduced some rather interesting improvements to their warehouse. Improvements which - if I understand Arthur correctly - prevented even my detectors from penetrating those defenses to find Draco Malfoy hidden within. Those rather advanced techniques of concealment would also explain why I have been unable to scrye out the location of the Weasleys' spy-device receiver."

"Which you didn't trust in the first place."

"I never meant to listen to the drivel exuding from it," Albus said, quite pleased with himself. "I meant to use the device to trace the signal to which it was attuned, and thus discern the location of the Ear, which should betray the location of Voldemort's lair. What has been our constant frustration in dealing with the Death Eaters? We don't know where they meet or where their leader lives. If I knew the location of Voldemort's throne room..."

"What would you do?" Minerva asked sarcastically. "Do you believe you would be able to apparate there?"

"No," Albus admitted sadly. "But perhaps the bulk of our allies could surround the place. We would have somewhere to start, at least. I shall have to investigate the Weasleys' building. Who knows what surprises I might find?"

-

By late October, the Malfoy defense team had made every argument they could present in their own favor. All that was left was the prosecution's rebuttal to the defense's case, and then closing arguments for both sides. As Lucius' barrister had predicted, the trial was on a pace that would see a verdict delivered by Halloween. Neither the legal professionals nor the defendant had any illusions about how the case would be decided.

Searching for the least offensive way to pose the question, the eldest member of the firm that had represented the Malfoys for generations met with his client in the conference room which was so very obviously monitored. The guards had ceased even pretending to allow the defendant any privacy and now stared openly as the elderly barrister told his client, "Your will is... quite out of date, Sir."

Lucius glared at the man. "What shall I bequeath? My body? I own nothing. The clothes I wear are on loan from the government that has taken everything from me. For all I know, my earthly remains will be treated in accordance with the executioner's instructions, to reduce the chance of my returning as a ghost."

"Perhaps. But you have not exactly lost everything, Sir," the barrister replied, nodding deeply in lieu of bowing. "There are some items that were determined to have no monetary value, nor any potential for... ah... political misuse. You have..."

"Bah!" Lucius shouted over his representative's quavering voice. "The scavengers have already listed my assets to make their thievery more effortless?"

"The catalogue was made during the search for evidence, Sir. Your..."

Lucius had no interest in the dry details. "If it's worth nothing, and will not contribute to my taking revenge on these criminals who have robbed me, why should I waste my time dispersing it? Who would want it?" He glared at the man opposite him, but he knew there was nothing else to discuss, and nothing waiting for him in the featureless cell in which he had spent the past weeks. "Oh, go on, tell me. What is it? What do I have to put into a Last Will and Testament?"

"Two things, Sir. First, there is a sheaf of some twenty sheets of parchment, containing poetry in your hand." The old man did his best to hide his discomfort at seeing his employer looking positively embarrassed.

"Oh, Gods, no. 'Narcissa Love?' Is that what you found?"

"That is the title on the first sheet, and it would appear to apply to the entire collection."

"I thought I had burned all of those."

"You must have burned most, Sir. There is a note that refers to a later page which is no longer in existence. And page twenty is charred along the right edge."

"What else?"

"A gnarled stick, listed as a 'walking stick or cane,' Sir. The rest is... uh... merely scraps and waste."

"Lucius sat up, his face blank, his voice businesslike as he said, "Our esteemed

government must be anticipating my making out a will bequeathing a stick and some romantic drivel to my heirs, so let us not disappoint them. If I am considered useful for nothing else, perhaps I might provide some value as entertainment. There is no monetary worth whatsoever associated with these items, though, am I correct? Good. So if I were to bequeath them to you, and you were to give them to someone else, there would be no tax-related repercussions for you, would there?"

"That would be highly improper, Sir. For me to receive..."

"My son going to his own home which as been seized by the government in order to beg for a stick and a stack of papers is highly improper. Your giving my last items to him, respectfully, after my death is to my mind quite superior. Make a will, counselor. Make it read that my poems and my cane shall be left to you. Then, as you are a good man, you will pass those things on to my son, when next you see him. Tell him that the poems are to remind him of how past foolishness can return much later in life as a base humiliation. And tell him to cherish the cane. Can you remember all of that?"

"Of course, Sir. But a will such as that cannot be signed until after a verdict is reached in your current proceeding. Technically, you still own..."

"You know what my technical ownership is worth. Make the will. Bring it to me. Have it ready for me to sign once I am condemned."

There was no comfort to be offered, no plausible hope to be extended. The counselor felt compelled to extend some support, however. "Is there anything I can get for you?"

Lucius' reply was stoic. "Unguent."

"I... beg your pardon."

Serrepticiously, Lucius slid his left cuff away from his wrist, providing the other man a brief glance at his left forearm. The old man gasped, then hid his reaction with a cough. The skin on Malfoy's arm, where once the Dark Mark had been inscribed, was blackened as though it had been burned away with hot iron pressed hard into the flesh.

"Ah. Yes, Sir. Unguent. I will... ah... see that the proper clearances are made for you to... ah... accept the... that is, medicine can always be... hrm. By tomorrow morning. Sir." The counselor stood and left, walking stiffly, his face pale. Lucius waited expressionlessly for the guards to lead him back to his cell.

-

Edmund Creevey led his band of adventurers though the muddy ground alongside a tributary of the Amazon toward his first definite target in Brazil. The group he had assembled for this journey consisted mostly of baggage carriers, but there were two specialists upon whom he depended greatly, whose sole duties were the care of Edmund's cameras and film. The huge, though ramshackle, building toward which they were walking was attached to a very sturdy dock, always a good sign in this wet country, but while it boasted a number of boats tied to the many pilings at dockside, it had few neighbors on the land side. This did not fit the image that Edmund had formed of the business that had rented a boat to the missing men of Hogwarts, but the address was correct. It could hardly have been otherwise... with no other buildings in sight, this had to be the place.

A thin man in a worn white shirt and slacks cut off at the knees was reclining in a chair on a porch that faced the building's dock side. He had kicked the chair back onto its rear legs and settled the backrest against the wall. From there, he had a good view of the river. He seemed quite surprised when he heard Edmund's team sloshing though the mud, and he stood up and stared at them for a long while before waving and calling out to them in Portuguese, something that sounded like, 'Garotas Exitar!'

In a booming voice, in English, Edmund shouted out, "Sorry, old man! What was that?"

With a distinctly different accent, the man called back, "Chicas Calientes!"

Edmund shrugged, and the man tried again, "Le Jeune Filles Exquisite!"

"Yes, quite," Edmund said, speaking slowly and loudly so as to be understood. "I was looking for the boat rental establishment."

The other man's face lit up in recognition. "Hot Girls!" he promised.

"No, no," Edmund argued. "Boats."

The Brazilian waggled his eyebrows with an exaggerated leer. "Hot boys!"

"No," Edmund began again.

"Hot old women! Very fat. Tatas grandes. Sehr gut. Je t'adore!"

One of the baggage carriers, Martin Cabral, an American whose parents had both been Portuguese natives, stepped up and fired off a rapid burst of the Brazilian national tongue.

The man from the porch frowned. "No."

Martin asked some more questions. The Brazilian chuckled. "No." Martin tried again. The other man snorted, laughed and once again replied, "No."

Then Edmund lost all track of the conversation as the torrent of Portuguese from both men was accompanied by arm waving, pointing and drawing in the air. After a couple of minutes, Martin turned back to Edmund and explained, "We have been mislead. This is the location that was indicated on the copy of that bill you have, but this place does not rent boats. Only whores. By the act, by the hour, or by the night. The nearest boat rental is over four hundred kilometers downstream. And that doesn't sound like the place we're looking for either. One odd thing, though. Renaldo here claims that a few weeks ago, a tall, skinny, white man with long hair, wearing a black dress, came out of the jungle from the same direction we just did. He didn't talk to anyone, just walked to where we're now standing and released a huge bird with something tied to its leg. Then he went away."

Creevey looked disgusted. "Ahhh, we have pictures to take," he said. "Anyone want to stop here for a while?"

"You can if you want," Martin said with a shrug. "Renaldo assures me that only about half of the people inside this building have AIDS. But he doesn't know which ones."

Renaldo must have understood enough English to follow the story. As Martin finished his report, the Brazilian laughed, clapped his hands and went back to his seat on the porch, watching the river, the route by which most customers arrived. The Creevey expedition tromped back into the jungle.

-

"More of it!" bellowed Minister Fudge, earning a scowl from his chief of staff. "Boy Who Lived, Deckard! Put him into my interviews, my speeches, my posters, everything! Boy Who Lived!"

"You can have too much of even a good thing, Minister." Constantine tried to sound reasonable, but Fudge's insistence on hammering this theme had become ridiculous over the past few weeks, and there was little patience left in his chief of staff for the subject. "This thing isn't even all that..."

"Nonsense, Deckard!" the Minister continued, unperturbed. "Election day is coming up! I want people to know that I wasn't the one who lost the Boy Who Lived! I want them to think of me as the Boy Who Lived Minister. I want them to feel, deep in their entrails, that electing me is like putting a little bit of the spirit of the Boy Who Lived into the Minister's office!"

"We have already hit that subject pretty hard, Sir. We did have the front page of the Prophet with that subject, and now..."

"That front page is ancient history now, Deckard!" Fudge railed. "What's all this you have me saying in my next speech? Look at it! Economy? Housing crisis in the face of Muggle expansion? More channels for the Wizarding Wireless Network? Garbage! There's not a gut-level item in the whole speech. You don't have the right idea, Deck. I'll tell you what I want you to do. Make the voters of this nation of ours wish that they could put the Boy Who Lived in my office. And then convince them that I'm the next best thing. That's your assignment, Chief. Put your best people on it." He threw down the sheets on which his proposed next speech was written. "And get rid of this stuff. This won't fly because it won't go straight to people's hearts. Get them by the heart, Deckard! Boy Who Lived! I want to see my next speech on my desk by this afternoon!" He stormed out of Constantine's office, leaving a dozen senior campaign planners shifting uncomfortably behind the chief of staff.

"You heard the man," Deckard said grimly. "As of now, we are running Harry James Potter for Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge to act as his regent. Let me see some ideas."

-

Harry Potter had a problem. This in itself was not new for him. To Harry, it often seemed as though his entire life consisted of nothing but stumbling from one difficulty to another. But with this particular problem, he was completely unfamiliar. And so he sat in his room in Godric's Hollow on October thirtieth wondering about it.

He didn't know what to wear.

He had three good choices available to him, each with something to be said for it. There was his standard Hogwarts robe, a useful garment, but not conducive to a great deal of physical action. He had his Gryffindor quiddich robe, which allowed for a great deal more athleticism, but was so brilliantly red and gold that it might make him an easier target for sniping curse-casters. He finally decided on his third choice, purely muggle clothing. He put on dark jeans and a long-sleeved pullover, thick socks and tennis shoes. He was about to leave his room when he remembered. He had decided to wear his glasses this evening. He opened the drawer of his nightstand and removed the spectacles from the soft cloth in which he had been keeping them wrapped. He adjusted his eyes so that the lenses once again allowed him clear vision. He slid his wand into a pants pocket and felt as ready as he thought he would ever be. He went out to the kitchen to join Remus and Snape.

The two men were at the kitchen table, sipping tea. As soon as Harry came into view, Snape began reminding him, "The summons should come very soon now. I'll be there for..."

"Wait," Harry said, and the potions master fell silent. "I know. We've been over it. I'll have a long wait. I'll be ready."

"If I return and find you asleep," Snape started, but Harry once again stopped him.

"I couldn't sleep now, if... Never mind. I won't be asleep, or somewhere else, or preoccupied with something. I'll be ready."

Snape was too nervous to be soothed by such reassurances. "I hate to feel as though we're wasting time that we could be going over our plan or - Augh!" Severus clutched his left arm, grimacing in pain. "That's it. I must go. If they haven't decided to kill me, I'll be back when the time is right. Be ready." He stood and moved away from the table. "Be ready," he repeated and apparated away.

"I'll be ready," Harry said quietly to the empty space where his teacher had just been.

-

"Oi, Snapey! No drink, no smoke, no victim and nobody naked next to you? You really know how to put a damper on a revel!" It was the elder Goyle who was shouting at Snape, staggering as he shouted, and fighting to focus both eyes on the potions master at the same time. Snape had never cared much for Goyle, and being called 'Snapey' did little to endear the man to him any further. "Come on, you old stick in the mutt... mud... butt... you know what I mean. This is our gladiator party. Eat, smoke and be fornicated for tomorrow we kill... die... whatever."

It was no wonder that Goyle was shouting. Nearly everyone in the gathering who wished to be heard was bellowing at the top of their lungs. There was music - of sorts - as a background to the Death Eaters' Revel. It was created using dozens of drums accompanied by heavy bass notes pounded out of a set of gigantic tympani and a pair of huge gongs. It was undeniably primal, and Snape could even appreciate the intricacy of the rhythms on an intellectual level. But the overall impression was of an earthquake in a rock quarry. Not so much music as overwhelming noise.

When Snape had apparated in response to the summons of the Dark Mark, he had not appeared in Voldemort's throne room, but in another chamber so much like it that the differences were not immediately apparent. The room was stone, windowless and torchlit, like the throne room. But there was no throne nor dais and the room was much larger. There were four racks against one wall, each one with a human tied to the frame. There were two men and two women. Two were muggles, one a witch, one a wizard. All had been brutally abused and none were likely to survive the night. Bound tightly and left scattered about the floor there were several more victims who had been kidnapped the previous day, sedated and left to regain consciousness in the midst of the revel. Many Death Eaters had trod upon these unfortunates, while others had already delivered them bone-breaking kicks. The sounds of the various victims' screams and groans played counterpoint to the percussion orchestra. All around the room there were barrels of alcoholic beverages, cauldrons of intoxicating potions, and mounds of psychoactive herbs. On blankets and pads scattered throughout the area, many of the revelers were already copulating. One woman danced nude before the bank of drums, various bodily fluids glistening all over her skin. Snape, the pain in his left arm gone as soon as he had obeyed the Dark Mark's summons to apparate there, stood against the wall farthest from the wall of victims and watched in silence.

Goyle either lost interest in baiting Snape, or, more likely, forgot he had been talking to him in the first place and staggered off to find further entertainment.

For his own part, Snape was spending his time counting. He counted the total number of attendees. He counted the few among those who had remained sober. And he counted the passing seconds. There were no time keeping devices allowed at a revel. Part of the point of these celebrations was to forget such mundane concerns as the time of day. And while Snape was more concerned with initiating his plan when the proper conditions had been met than in acting at a particular hour, he did not wish to wait too long to take action, or react too quickly to any perceived advantage. Already, the revel had reached an intensity of debauchery - not to mention sound volume - within which he would most likely not be noticed should he suddenly apparate away. But through experience, he knew that the celebrants would become more intoxicated, more exhausted, and even less watchful than they were at that time. He also suspected that several of the revelers were feigning drunkenness. Those would be the ones designated as enforcers of security for the early part of the evening. During the first half of the revel, they would watch for any attempts at sabotage and they would try to keep the Death Eaters from directing their violence at one another in their frenzy over tormenting the kidnapped victims. But later in the revel, even the security guards would be free to actually indulge in the debauch. Once things had progressed past a certain point at a Death Eater revel, even Voldemort knew there would be no restraining those in attendance from participating.

So Snape waited, watching for the signs of rising insanity that would mean the revel was into its second half. And he worried about how long this would force him to be absent from Godric's Hollow. For all Harry Potter's power, for all his recent accomplishments, Snape still did not believe that the boy possessed an acceptable level of self discipline. In Snape's eyes, Harry still counted on the adults around him to keep him focused, to force him to follow a proper schedule, to make sure he accomplished what he needed to do each day. Worse, Harry was famous for sneaking away from where he was supposed to be and encountering grave difficulties when he did so. If Snape were to begin acting out the evening's plan and Harry was not in position... or if the boy were asleep, or distracted, or anything other than absolutely ready to go... then the results would almost certainly be disastrous.

There was some reassurance to be found in the fact that Lupin was waiting with the boy. Snape was amused that he now trusted the werewolf sufficiently to be reassured by his participation. Lupin would certainly make sure that Harry did not wander off, and he might even be able to keep the boy awake. That was all Snape asked. But such a limited role had proven unsatisfying to the werewolf as the plan for tonight was being finalized. Lupin had wanted to join in the attack in wolf form, so that he might have had a chance to clamp his great, slavering jaws onto some Death Eaters. It had been Harry who had convinced him to stop arguing and accept that he would be staying home. If the plan failed, there would be plenty of time to make war on the Death Eaters, and every man - and every monster - would be needed to do so. But for the plan to succeed, all that was necessary was Harry.

Snape pressed himself back against the wall in the darkest place he could find, as far away from a torch as he could get. Almost everyone was stripping off their robes already, and in the center of the floor, revelers piled into a sweating, grunting mass for drugged, violent, mob sex. Snape had long ago seen too many revels to be shocked, and he had long ago found that he really wasn't truly disgusted by the guttural utterances, the dripping bodies or the blind groping of the average revel's dogpile. Rather, the whole spectacle was simply so uninteresting as to offer no attraction for him at all.

While watching the mob, he could pick out individuals whose bodies were shapely, and who might, under different circumstances, be attractive. He could find isolated examples of impressive sexual athleticism, where flexibility, talent and sheer enthusiasm combined to turn part of the writhing mass into a remarkable dance. Snape remained unmoved.

On display amongst the usual sexual pursuits were a number of fetishes. There were people enjoying pain, others indulging in humiliation. There were those who hungered for the taste of blood and some who sought out excrement. There were a large variety of accessories to play with and a large number of body modifications - usually covered by robes - that were being exposed that night.

But Snape's own fetish remained - not only ignored - but practically the antithesis of the revel's activities. He loved power. The more high-level, the more concentrated the power the better it was for him. He had felt this way all of his life. Years before, he had believed Voldemort to be his natural leader because the Dark Lord was so powerful. He had become a double agent for Dumbledore because Albus' power was, in some ways, even more impressive. And now there was Harry Potter. Wandless magic, improvised spells, and levels of magical energy that had yet to find their measure. Teaching him had been an exquisite experience.

A Death Eater revel, by contrast, sapped the raw power of its participants. It let them waste their energy, leaving them sated, sleepy, intoxicated, and later, hung over. But more importantly, it left them malleable. Voldemort knew the value of giving his endorsement to celebrations such as these. They were great rewards which suggested the pleasure-filled life that awaited the victorious forces of the Dark Lord once the inhibited, fearful, puny governments of the rest of the world had been trodden underfoot and the Death Eaters ruled in the way they saw fit. People would follow a man who offered them a life of revels. They would follow his instructions, accept his hatreds, attack his enemies, and - most crucially - they would think they were doing all of this for themselves. Voldemort himself never participated in a revel. He suggested that this was because he wanted his followers to be truly uninhibited during the celebration, without their leader present to remind them of their duties and responsibilities. Snape knew that Voldemort's absence was due to the Dark Lord's determination to retain his full power, complete awareness and total self control at all times.

Of course, that meant that Voldemort wanted his followers... all of his followers... to participate fully in every aspect of the revels. Snape had habitually remained aloof for years, and at each such gathering he had wondered whether he would finally push the Dark Lord's patience past its limit. 'Once more,' Snape hoped fervently. 'Just once more let me stay here and be ignored.'

To Snape's astonishment, an explosive noise sounded so loudly as to be audible... barely... over the cacophony of the drumming. Snape shuddered as he thought of what would befall anyone foolish enough to apparate into such an important gathering so late. Then his heart sank. This person would not be punished. This was an honored guest. And, most likely, Snape himself could forget about remaining ignored. Appearing on the far side of the room, her skeletal face split wide in a manic grin, was Bellatrix LeStrange.

Snape remained motionless, willing himself invisible. This woman, this escapee from Azkaban, this member of Voldemort's inner circle, knew him - had known him since they were both children. She had suspected him of being a double agent for years, accusing him to Voldemort, raving about how he could not be trusted. Voldemort seemed to enjoy having such division between his closest followers, however. He listened to Bellatrix's charges, took time to consider them carefully, then did nothing. This made Bellatrix furious, but so far, Snape had managed to avoid her vindictiveness. On the far side of the room, Bellatrix was exhorting the crowd to greater frenzy. She pulled off her robe, spun it around over her head several times and flung it away. She was wearing nothing else. She turned, selected a knife, stepped daintily in front of the muggle man hung on the wall rack and showed him the blade. He had been beaten so severely he was barely aware of his surroundings, and to Bellatrix's disappointment, he showed no reaction to her display of the weapon. But she reached up to check the pulse in his neck, and beamed happily as she discovered that it was still strong. With a well-practiced flick of the knife, she severed the man's carotid artery, and as his heart forced his lifeblood out in great gouting spurts, she showered in the thick red flow, rubbing it into her skin and twisting in enjoyment. As the provider of her blood shower died, she plunged the knife into his groin and turned back to the crowd.

"Men!" She bellowed loudly enough for Severus to hear across the room and over the drumming. "Can you rise to the occasion? Men! To Me! On Me! In Me! Now, Damn You!"

There were at least a half dozen takers for her offer, and several more who seemed to be willing to form a second wave once she had exhausted the first bunch. Many among the gathering realized the advantage of pleasing such an important member of the Dark Lord's inner circle. Most were also aware of the danger of spending any time close to such a visciously dangerous maniac, but they had chosen to gamble, pitting the risk of being killed or injured by one of Bellatrix's insane whims against the opportunity for advancement her favor represented. Snape sighed in relief. Bellatrix would be too involved to seek him out... at least for a while.

-

Late at night on October 30th, Arthur Weasley entered the house on Grimmauld Place with his shoulders slumped and his face turned toward the floor. He stomped on the rough mat lying in the center of the entryway as vigorously as he had pounded his feet on the outdoor mat. It was still early in the year, there wasn't any snow yet, but the air was damp enough that Arthur had expected to find a heavy coating of mud on each of his shoes. He certainly felt as though something was weighing down each of his steps. There was something weighing on him... but it wasn't mud. Arthur did not feel at all well... but he wasn't ill. He looked down the hallway toward the rooms where the other members of the Order would gather, and dreaded going there... but not because of any aversion to the Order, those people who had become his greatest friends. With perhaps one exception. Arthur truly hoped he would not see Albus Dumbledore. Not tonight. Not with so much bad news. Not with so many unanswered questions about the way Albus had directed the Order's preparation for the Halloween season.

Arthur forced himself to straighten his posture and remove the defeated expression from his face, and walked into the expansive sitting room to find Nymphadora Tonks stoking the fire, getting a little more heat and light out of a very economical measure of fuel.

Nymphadora looked over her shoulder and smiled at the new arrival, welcoming him back from street patrol with the barest sketch of a salute. She liked Arthur. He was much more reasonable, and far less prone to nervous tension than most of the older Order members. For example, almost any other one of them would have gone out of his way to take over the fireplace-tending, pushing her away from the hearth in terror just because she had been a little clumsy in the past. "Hi!" she called out, then grabbed the shovel to try to contain the embers she had inadvertently knocked out of the firebox with the poker when she had looked away. As Tonks had expected, Mister Weasley did not rush forward in panic, but calmly let her push the burning bits back to safety. Once the danger of burning the house down had been removed, Tonks put the tools back in the rack - upsetting it only once, and even then, catching it before it clattered to the ground - and stood up to admire her own work.

"Is Molly in yet?" Arthur sighed, stripping off his heavy woolen overcoat.

"Still out. Not due in for another half hour or so."

"And Albus?"

"Haven't seen him," Tonks shrugged. "But your sons did." Arthur made a strangled sound, and Tonks was surprised to see the man's face twist with anger. She guessed that Mister Weasley had misheard her, so she added some details, hoping he would discover his own mistake. "I talked to Fred a couple of hours ago. Professor Dumbledore went over to your sons' warehouse again tonight. He said that some of his tracing spells must have gone wrong and that..."

"Idiot!" Arthur spat, dropping heavily into an armchair.

Tonks stared at him, not understanding. "What?"

"Of course his tracing spells went wrong," Arthur fumed. "Can you trace a radio signal with a radio receiver? Well, with two you can, if they're tuned to the same frequency... and if you have special antennas... but..."

"I don't know anything about radio, but Professor Dumbledore said he would be able to find the..."

"That's because he thinks he can do anything!" Arthur barked back. "And there he is, tonight of all nights, absent again, piddling around because he's angry at the twins for not giving him the whole Ear device in the first place, never mind their pending patents, and that they expect to make a living from their inventions, and meanwhile we're late!"

At Tonks' questioning look, Arthur scowled and reported bitterly, "Oh, yes. Late. It looks like we've lost at least four. I checked with Kingsley. At least four people went missing last night. Good, innocent, hard-working people... exactly the sort that the Death Eaters love to punish for daring to have a normal life. And that's just from our own people. We have no idea how many muggles were taken - or simply killed outright. So Albus thinks it's a good use of his time to go harass my sons instead of trying to save people from being kidnapped and used as sacrifices at a Death Eater revel. Horse piss!"

Tonks was shocked. Arthur so seldom used any harsh language at all that even such a mild ephitet was remarkable, coming from him. "Are you sure the missing people have been kidnapped? And are you sure the victims will be sacrificed?"

Arthur grimaced. "Snape has seen it all. He's been to revels. He's told me about them. Kingsley has arrested people who have seen it all. They've bragged about what they've done. I've read reports at the ministry, about investigations of people who have seen it all. Even through the dull, dry, official language you can tell how awful a revel is designed to be. For example: Do you know what a piñata is?"

Nymphadora did not.

"Never mind. Whether it's a ritual killing or just for the Death Eaters' enjoyment, everyone who gets dragged into a revel as a prisoner comes out dead. And it looks like four prisoners - at least - are going to be killed tonight. While Albus is off playing around my sons' warehouse."

"He's not there now," Tonks pointed out gently. "When I talked to Fred, Professor Dumbledore had already been gone for a long time. And if it's any consolation, he said he had found something interesting before he left the warehouse. "

"If 'something interesting' had been the location of Voldemort's hideout, you'd think we would have been summoned to surround the place by now," Arthur groused.

"Yeah..." Tonks said thoughtfully. "Or maybe he decided to go after the whole Death Eater army by himself. Either way, I don't think Voldemort's bunch will be hiding out anymore after tonight."

"No," Arthur agreed. "They'll attack tomorrow, when we're all exhausted enough to make plenty of mistakes." He fell silent, and the two of them waited glumly for more of the Order to return to Grimmauld Place.

-

"Doing all right, Harry?" Remus asked for at least the twentieth time in the past hour.

Harry glared at the man. "Fine," he said tightly and took another sip from his huge coffee mug. He and Remus were waiting in the kitchen, lights blazingly bright, curtains drawn to hide the darkness outside.

"With the amount of coffee you've had, I can imagine you're awake," Remus grinned. "And if you get into trouble in a magic duel, you can always drown your opponent in..."

"I just went," Harry interrupted. "I'm ready." Then, knowing that continuing the conversation was the only way to prevent Remus from asking whether he was 'all right' again, Harry began talking about anything that came to mind. Anything except Death Eaters or tonight's impending fight, that is. "You remember when you left Hogwarts, when you quit the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching job?" Remus nodded, wearing a regretful smile. "Where did you go? I mean, I know you said you eventually moved to London, but when you quit, when you first left Hogwarts, where did you go? That day. Right after I saw you last."

Remus stared off into space, visualizing the scene. "I knew I had to go south. London isn't too far off the mark, actually. When I..."

BANG!

Severus Snape appeared in the center of the kitchen floor. Before the explosive sound of his apparation had finished ringing through the room, Harry had leapt out of his chair and run directly into Snape's chest. "GO!" Harry shouted.

Snape grabbed Harry's shoulders and turned him around so that the boy's face would not be buried in his robes after they reapparated. He flicked his wand toward the room lights. "Nox," he commanded. The room darkened immediately. He wrapped his arms firmly around Harry and with quiet intensity he said, "We will appear with a wall at our backs. You'll be facing the entire room from the center of that wall. Ignore the prisoners. Most others are drunk."

Harry had expected the Death Eaters' intoxication to be their greatest ally. He couldn't understand why Snape was wasting time talking about it. "GO!" Harry bellowed.

"Look out for Bellatrix LeStrange, she's completely sober. She'll be on the far side of the room, totally naked."

Harry didn't care if the revel's floor show included a line of nude dancing veela. "GO!" Harry yelled.

"I haven't seen Voldemort or Pettigrew at all. I don't know where they are, but it makes sense that Voldemort will have some way of watching the room.

"They'll come running once they see I'm there, then!" Harry squirmed in impatience. "GO!" he screamed.

"The revel room is dark. The only light is from torches. You've been sitting here with your illumination at noontime sunshine levels. If you go before your eyes adjust, you'll be blind."

"They're adjusted!" Harry wailed. "GO!"

BANG!

They went.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

And... pop... they appeared in the stone room filled with reveling Death Eaters. It was loud. Loud enough to drown out the explosive sound of their arrival. Loud enough that Harry felt as though his head were stuck inside one of the drums. He had expected the dimness, the flickering uncertainty of torch light. He hadn't been prepared for the noise, or the stench. The air was heavy with a thick miasma redolent of sweat, burning herbs, steaming potions, fear, suffering and cruelty. 'If evil has a smell, it's probably this,' was his thought as he instinctively recoiled from the assault of the sound and the smell, stumbling backward into Snape. The smell revolted Harry on a level deeper than even his hatred for Voldemort. Rotting things smelled awful, but they weren't evil. Sweat could stink, but it wasn't evil. All sorts of offal might assault his nose without possessing any of the quality of evil at all, but this smell seemed to punch him directly in the gut with a deep, disgusting pummeling of pure evil, even as the relentless drumming pounded at his head in an all-out attempt to disorient and confuse him.

Pushing himself away from Snape, feeling as though he were leaning into a storm consisting of the dark, the noise, the stench, and the hateful people assembled here, he gathered his strength and resolutely refused to be beaten down by the combined assault. He tried his voice, making a simple humming sound to confirm how little he would be able to hear himself. He had gotten used to listening to his own spells as he cast them. He would be denied that luxury in this situation. He would simply have to force himself to be so determined, so focused, that he would not need to hear his own voice in order to let his magic flow.

He scanned the room, quickly assessing the threat. It was surprisingly small. The Death Eaters were either passed out, helplessly intoxicated, being sick or having sex. No one had even noticed his arrival. That was perfectly fine with Harry.

"Bindimus," he commanded.

From out of thin air, around every Death Eater in the room, bands like the linen wrappings of mummies burst into existence, streaming outward from each point of creation to wind themselves tightly around each target Death Eater's jaw - preventing the speaking of any spell; around each one's arms - preventing any one of them from reaching for a wand; and around their legs - preventing them from running away. Then the bands continued to multiply, wrapping each of Voldemort's followers in a thick, sturdy, immobile cocoon, leaving only enough of a gap to allow air to reach each bound person's nostrils. Harry scanned the room once again. There were no free Death Eaters remaining, but their surviving victims were still helplessly tied, on racks or on the ground.

"Libertium," Harry ordered.

The bindings fell away from the victims. Those three who had survived their time on the wall racks gently floated to the ground, the ones who had been left on the floor rubbed their wrists in amazement. Harry could tell which of the victims were muggles and which were of the wizarding world by how they reacted to their sudden freedom. The muggles moved away from the wrapped bodies of the Death Eaters as quickly as their injuries would allow them. They unanimously made for the walls and began searching for an exit. The wizards and witches, understanding who it was that had abused them, grabbed whatever bludgeons they could find and began to pound the bound Death Eaters with all their remaining strength. The witch who had been hung on the wall seized the knife Bellatrix LeStrange had used to commit murder and began plunging it into one of the bound bodies over and over.

Harry swept his eyes over the room once again. Terrified muggles, trying to escape. Furious wizards and witches, taking whatever revenge they could on their erstwhile captors. And Death Eaters, all securely bound. So who was doing all that pounding? Harry peered at the bank of drums and could see no one standing there. The sticks themselves must have been charmed to continue to beat in the absence of any musicians. No wonder the cacophony was so hellish! Harry extended a hand toward the array of percussion instruments.

"Quiete!" he insisted.

The silence left him aware of an irritating ringing in his ears, but the mind-numbing percussive thunder was gone.

"Nolo Apparatare," Harry demanded, putting a ward around the room to cast a shield which prevented anyone within its influence from apparating away. It also worked to hinder those attempting to apparate into the room. Rather than preventing incoming apparation altogether, it slowed the appearance of anyone arriving, which would give Harry plenty of time to react to any attack by apparators. He stood cautiously, waiting for the Dark Lord to arrive. Aside from the sounds of beating and stabbing, as the former prisoners turned the tables on their onetime captors, nothing happened for the space of a dozen long breaths.

When someone finally did enter the room, the new arrival's appearance was such an anticlimax that Harry had to force himself not to laugh out loud.

Peter Pettigrew pushed open a door in the wall to Harry's right, far from where Harry stood. Wormtail's face was filled with panic, and he was already babbling, offering apologies one after the other. "Forgive me, Master, I am sorry, Lord, I had no idea that you had already..." Pettigrew was quick to realize that the silence of the drums had not heralded the appearance of his Lord, but something very different. His eyes widened as he saw the muggles, now free from their bonds, rushing toward the escape his doorway seemed to offer. With rodential quickness, he tried to duck back through the opening. His attempt to flee was futile. Harry had been ready and waiting, and was not about to let the animagus get away again.

"Conglacio," Harry declared, and Pettigrew ceased to move. "Accio Wormtail," Harry demanded, and Pettigrew flew across the room toward him. Exactly as Harry had imagined when he cast his spell, Peter's eyes were still mobile while the rest of his body was frozen in exactly the position it had been as Harry had spoken. The animagus' eyes were rolling wildly, but since he was not able to move or speak, he could not cast any spells. He was also unable to effect his most reliable escape trick, the rat change. He had been an animagus for so long, had spent so much of his life in his animal form, that it usually took no more than the thought of becoming a rat to begin his transformation. To his dismay, this occasion proved to be the exception to that rule.

With Pettigrew out of the doorway, the unbound muggles were struggling toward that portal with even more determination than previously. Harry had some idea what might await them once they had passed through, and if his suspicions were correct, it would prove fatal to them all. He was certain that none of the panicked people would heed his warning if he simply shouted at them, and he had no desire to hurt them any further with a restraining spell. "Film Loop," He decreed, no longer bothering to translate his impulsive word choices for his improvised spells into pidgin Latin. In an unintentionally horrible display, the entire company of fleeing muggles began to quiver in place, repeating the same tiny fractional motions over and over again. As Harry had cast the spell, he had willed the victims to experience each repetition as though it were new, immediately forgetting the previous cycle. That way, they would still believe they were running away, and would not have the nightmarish sensation of being trapped in a sort of never-ending perdition. By the same token, they would remain here where Harry could keep an eye on them, and not disappear through the doorway, where they would almost certainly run into Voldemort during their flight and be killed or further maimed as the Dark Lord vented his rage upon them.

Harry considered Pettigrew for a while, as the sound of the beatings continued in the background. Those who had been kidnapped from the wizarding world were whaling away on the bound Death Eaters with a seemingly inexhaustible rage. The witch who had taken Bellatrix's murder weapon and turned it on her former captors had killed her first target. She slashed through the bindings covering the Death Eater's face and screamed in frustration. Immediately, she turned to another bound body lying close to her. She tried to cut the bindings away from her next choice's face, but as that Death Eater was still living, the bonds would not yield. "You bitch!" the knife-wielder screamed. "I'll find you!" and began plunging her blade into the body before her.

Harry calmly watched Pettigrew's reaction through all of this without offering any comment. After more than a minute had passed in this way, Harry called out, "Professor Snape! How does the summoning work? The one Voldemort uses to call his followers through the Dark Mark?"

Snape replied with quiet precision. "When the Dark Lord touches any of the Dark Marks, all of our Marks turn black and begin to give us pain. We are directed to apparate to the appointed place by the attraction radiated through the Mark by the Dark Lord himself."

"And the Mark that the Dark Lord touched most often over the course of the past couple of years would be...?"

"That of Peter Pettigrew."

"But Peter contributed none of the magic, did he? He simply held out his arm for his Master to touch, and the summoning took place without any input from him whatsoever."

"That is correct."

"So, Peter," Harry said casually. "If I wanted to cast that summons myself, I wouldn't really need you. All I'd need is your arm." Pettigrew's eyes spun wildly as he strained to do anything at all to help himself.

At that moment, a deep bass rumbling erupted from beyond the open doorway. A crashing sound like tons of scrap metal being cast into huge steel bins arose, blossoming forth from the thunderous booming. Billows of smoke rolled through the door, each bulging puff seeming to form a screaming face before being replaced by the next smoky wave. A sheet of fire, hovering inches off the floor, flew through the doorway supporting a humanoid figure of deepest black, a color so dark it seemed to draw the surrounding illumination into itself.

Harry smiled pleasantly at the immobilized Pettigrew. With a polite nod, he said, "Please excuse me. Something has come up that requires my attention." With that, he stepped toward the thunderous progression of smoke and flame. He stood facing the display with hands held loosely at his sides.

With preternatural swiftness, the smoke cleared. The fiery sheet settled to the ground, allowing its dark rider to regain solid footing on the floor. The shell of blackness fell away from the figure, revealing the scar-tissue slick pink face of Voldemort staring in triumph at his longtime nemesis. As the darkness swirled away from his body, the Dark Lord was revealed as a much slimmer, lighter figure than his black disguise had suggested. His robe was nearly as dark as his shadowy camouflage had been, and he held his wand at the ready in hands as hairless and shiny as his face, the angry pink contrasting garishly with his garment. "You have lost your wand, boy," the Dark Lord gloated. His voice crackled, the scars of his rebirth distorting his vocal cords beyond the capacity for creating any sort of soothing or mellow sound.

"Mmm Hmm." Harry shrugged, unconcerned.

"Pfah!" Voldemort spat, the edges of his lipless mouth working over teeth that had grown in so sharply they appeared to have been filed. The combination reminded Harry of a shark's mouth, but without the shark's natural streamlined grace. Whatever Voldemort's regrown body may have been, there was nothing 'natural' about it. The man who had been born Tom Malvolo Riddle, and who had been re-embodied with so little of his humanity left to him, rolled his shoulders to help loosen his arms in preparation for serious spellcasting. The motion made a sound like a chorus of cracking knuckles. "You feign bravery better than your parents did," he taunted, pleased to see Harry flinch at the jibe. "You may think you have some reason to be brave. You may hope that I will draw this out, take my time, and give your allies a chance to arrive. You may be hoping to see your Dumbledore, your Sword of Gryffindor, your teams of aurors. You won't." Pointing his wand directly at the lightning bolt shaped scar on Harry's forehead, Voldemort cast, "Avada Kadavra!"

Harry made a flicking gesture with one hand, as though to discourage a flying insect's approach. The brilliant green flash that had formed at the tip of Voldemort's wand sputtered into darkness.

The flesh above the Dark Lord's eyes wrinkled in a way that would have brought his brows together in a scowl if his new body had grown any hair. "Perhaps you do have a particular immunity to that spell," he rasped. "You have the history for it. But I know you are susceptible to the suffering this one will cause." Training his wand on Harry's heart, he commanded, "Crucio!"

Harry's tiny snort of laughter and slow shake of his head were his only responses to the punishing curse. The brilliant beam Voldemort had expected to see leaping from his wand instead provided only a dim glow around the wand's tip. The glow quickly faded away. "Invulnerable to two of the world's most powerful spells," Voldemort marvelled. "You must have made a great effort to prevent harm from coming to you. So I will make you my tool, instead, and use your resilience to my own advantage. Imperio!"

The rhythm of the Dark Lord's bombast had become predictable. As Voldemort cast his third unforgivable spell in a row, Harry raised his hand with his palm out as though signaling Voldemort to stop. The motion was as smoothly timed as if it had been choreographed. The dark power streaming out of Voldemort's wand suddenly reversed its direction. An instant later, the Dark Lord staggered as the ruined remains of his own spell washed over him.

Harry clicked his tongue reprovingly. "And you call yourself a world conqueror," he said, voice filled with disappointment. "Look at you! You finally get a chance to kill me, and what do you do? You cast the three most obvious spells in existence. I put the counterspells to those old clichés in place hours ago. What's really sad is that you've had nearly twenty years to come up with something exciting. Instead, you bring out the same old, tired stuff you used in the last war. No new tricks from old Tom. Pitiful."

Harry watched his opponent carefully as he delivered that speech. He could see the tension build in Voldemort's body, could see the fury twisting the slick face, could tell when the Dark Lord's anger was about to boil over. When the humiliation of being scolded by a mere boy became too much for Voldemort's pride, and he raised his wand to begin to cast another spell, Harry acted. "Stop!" he barked, pointing a finger directly at his enemy's chest. He held his breath for a long moment until he was certain his spell had worked. Then slowly, cautiously, he relaxed. Voldemort stood there, face contorted with rage, an incipient spell already twisting his mouth, wand held in a powerful grip fueled by fury. It had worked. All the planning. All the practice. All the efforts of the people who had contributed to accomplishing this. It had all been successful. Here was the most feared wizard in the world, frozen helplessly, with his allies bound, equally helplessly, all around him.

It was at that point that Harry could acknowledge that he had given himself a serious problem.

What was he to do with Voldemort now that he had him?

Killing his body had already proven ineffective. Voldemort had survived for over fifteen years without a corporeal form, and had even managed to grow himself a new one when being bodiless had proven to be too much of an inconvenience. And knowing how much trouble Voldemort had been able to cause in ethereal form, while deprived of a physical vessel to contain himself, Harry had no intention of allowing his enemy to become a ghost.

So killing the body frozen there in front of him was not an option.

Killing his soul might have been. But Harry was no Dementor. During the past few days of practice, with Snape and Remus inspiring him to ever greater feats of magic, Harry had begun to feel as though he could do anything he could imagine. But he could not imagine what to do to destroy Voldemort's soul. He could see the reflection of Tom Riddle's soul sickness in the scars and distortions the Dark Lord had incorporated into the new body he had grown for himself. He had seen the evidence of the Dark Lord's soul weakness expressed in the Death Eaters' codified hatreds and in Voldemort's contempt for any life other than his own. Harry had been told how that weakness was exacerbated by some of Voldemort's most selfish crimes - his feeding on unicorn blood, for example. Still, Harry couldn't see any magical method he could use to destroy even this sick and weak a soul.

Considering how clear and obvious all other magic seemed to him now, Harry had to conclude that attempting to kill Voldemort's soul was no more a viable option than was killing his body.

There was no point in even considering turning the Dark Lord over to the wizarding government's authorities. If Azkaban had proven incapable of holding Voldemort's followers, the prison would certainly be inadequate to the task of containing Voldemort himself. More importantly to Harry, he had been the one to secure this victory, so the dilemma of how to manage his triumph was his own. He had to solve the mystery of how to assure himself as well as the rest of the world that Voldemort would never again return to plague them. That responsibility could not be pushed off onto anyone else, even if there had been someone capable or trustworthy enough to handle the job.

So giving Voldemort away was not an option either.

Harry gazed at the motionless forms of Voldemort and Pettigrew for a long moment. He could feel the solution to his problem of what to do with them hovering just beyond his grasp. It teased him, barely out of reach. It occurred to Harry that his consideration of the problem was made even more difficult because there was still a piece of the puzzle missing. He reached out a hand toward the wall that had held the prisoners. Absently, he called out, "Accio Bellatrix!" One of the bound forms lifted from the floor and floated toward him, coming to rest at the side of Voldemort, opposite Pettigrew. Harry nodded slowly. Seeing the three villains together gave him a much better understanding of what to do next.

Dimly, Harry became aware of an enraged rumble of protest rising from the Death Eaters' victims he had recently freed with his improvised 'Libertium' spell. That group hardly needed to be told the name of one of the two motionless wizards facing the boy. They had seen Voldemort's fiery entrance and had heard Wormtail babbling about his Lord and Master. They all realized that this hideous pink-skinned mutation must be the despised Lord Voldemort. Then someone had heard Harry's spell, and had realized that the bound body he had summoned must have been that of the contemptible Bellatrix LeStrange. Each of those who had suffered kidnapping and torture at the hands of the Death Eaters was sure of one thing: within this room were the most hated wizards and witches in all of Britain. And two of the three helplessly frozen bodies gathered in front of the boy wearing muggle clothing were the most hated of all. With their improvised bludgeons and stolen weapons, the victims stalked toward the three motionless villains, intent on tearing them all to pieces.

Annoyed at being interrupted, Harry faced the approaching crowd. "Wait!" he said, not harshly, but with a clear, commanding assuredness. The crowd was not frozen, not restrained physically, but they stopped moving forward. They ceased swinging their weapons. They discontinued their ferocious roar. Even though some of them weren't quite sure why they were doing so, they waited.

"Do you know who I am?"

This was the first that any of the crowd had thought that he might be anyone. They had been occupied with their own concerns until they had spied Voldemort standing helplessly frozen. The group stared suspiciously at the boy who stood between them and their avowed enemy.

"I am Harry Potter. Popularly known as the Boy Who Lived."

This got a reaction. A rumble of muttered comments rose from the gathered witches and wizards. To all appearances, they would be willing to listen, at least momentarily, to the famous Harry Potter.

"You do know why I am called The Boy Who LIved, don't you? It is because I defeated Voldemort the first time when I was still a baby. Knocked him out of his body. Put his plans back fifteen years. Despite all of that, he came back!" A rumble of anger and hatred filled the room. "This time, I am not a baby. And this time, I need to take great care to destroy Voldemort entirely, so he will never be able to return again. It will take me some time, and a great deal of concentration to do the job properly, and forever rid the world of Voldemort." Harry could see some among the crowd flinch at the mention of the hated name.

"Get used to it! Voldemort! Voldemort! Voldemort!" Harry shouted at them. "He's not the boogeyman any more. He won't pop up in a puff of smoke at the mention of his name anymore. He won't lead these Death Eaters in attacks against you anymore. You can say his name without fear. And you can all tell your grandchildren that you were there when Harry Potter defeated... VOLDEMORT!"

"Kill him!" yelled one wizard. "We'll kill him!" shouted a witch. "We'll all kill him," added several more, as the crowd surged forward once again.

"Wait!" Harry said, and to their own amazement, the angry people stopped moving and waited. "If you kill him clumsily, without taking the proper precautions, HE WILL come back AGAIN! I can prevent that from happening. But I need the time to work in order to do it properly."

"Why you?" Someone shouted.

Harry felt like shouting out his thanks for that perfectly-timed question. He met the eyes of as many of the people gathered before him as he could. He wanted as many of them as possible to see how serious he was. "Voldemort killed my parents, and ruined my life. Then his Death Eaters hounded me non-stop for the next seventeen years. They killed some of my friends, and tried to ruin others' lives as well. Do any of you think you could possibly hate them as much as I hate them?"

One muscular wizard, a young man of less than fifty years of age, pushed his way to a place near the front of the crowd. "I think I do," he challenged.

"Do you," Harry responded ascerbically. "So... do you want to kill one? Would that make you feel better? Would that make you feel like a bigger man?"

"It might." The wizard's reply was still surly, but hardly as confident as his last words had been.

"And how would you hurt them?" Harry asked sarcastically. "Can you cast Crucio? Do you know any punishing spells? Do you know anything at all about torture?"

"I know what they taught me tonight," the man insisted, chin thrust out defiantly.

"A quick study," Harry sneered. "Then think about this. I came into this room, stopped Voldemort, bound his followers, and set you all free. Could you have done any of this for yourself?"

Defensively, the wizard snapped back, "I didn't have my wand."

Harry's eyes flew open wide. He stood with his arms spread, hands open, fingers splayed. He twisted so that everyone nearby could get a good look at him. "DO YOU SEE A WAND ON ME?" he bellowed impatiently.

Everyone in the room looked at him. None of them saw a wand. None of them had seen Harry use a wand at any time that night. But they were all experienced witches and wizards. They knew how magic worked. So they had assumed. And their assumptions had all included a wand for the boy.

"Look!" Harry shouted. He pointed a finger into the air. "Incendio." A fireball appeared above his head, flames churning as the ball spun in place. Harry raised a hand above his head. "Lumos." The entire huge room lit to daylight brightness. Harry spread his arms and raised his hands slowly, like an orchestral conductor signalling for greater volume. "Wingardium Leviosa!" The bound bodies of every Death Eater in the place rose to about eight or nine feet off the ground. Harry made a spinning motion with each hand. "Tor N'Ket Revolus!" Each of the Levitated Death Eaters began spinning in three directions at once, turning along their long axis, rotating about their midsections and tumbling end over end. With the air of a military instructor facing a group of hopelessly incompetent recruits, he demanded, "DO YOU NEED A WAND TO WORK MAGIC?"

Harry waited for a long moment, making sure no one had anything else to say to him. Then, very calmly - but very clearly - he announced, "Professor Snape. I need to work. These people need to go home. But many of them will require medical assistance, first. I have placed an anti-apparation shell around this room. Will you please lead these people through that door and use this..." He held out his hand and a small, highly-reflective ball floated from his fingertips to land in Snape's palm. "... which will take you all to Saint Mungo's? Thank you all for your cooperation."

Very quietly, Snape murmured, "You will be here alone."

Almost as quietly, Harry said, "You know how to return. Bring Remus, to help with the muggles." He motioned toward the door, and Snape began organizing the gathered magic-users' exit. They left, some eagerly, some hesitantly. Some looked as though they could not believe that they were actually walking away from this astounding scene. And a few seemed nearly somnambulant, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed, shuffling along with barely any awareness of what they were doing. All of them walked through a bizarre scene: a brilliantly lit, huge stone room with a fireball suspended in mid-air as mummy-wrapped bodies twirled and spun just above their heads and a group of badly-beaten muggles quivered in place.

Harry watched them go until the last one had disappeared beyond the doorway. He knew that, during his instructions to Snape, he had given them all a subtle push. He knew that the strength of the push he had given them had been proportional to each one's reluctance to leave. He knew that he would have rather sent them on their way without having done that to them. He also knew that he might have argued with some of them all night without convincing them to go. He resolved to think about it further, later. For now, he had to deal with those threats that were still outstanding. Lucius Malfoy was in jail. Harry could count on him staying put for a while, at least. But one other extremely dangerous Death Eater had not been in evidence at this revel. Harry had to discover everything he could regarding the whereabouts, and the plans, of Bellatrix LeStrange's husband, Rodolfus.

Harry pondered the best way to accomplish this. He decided that the odd tableaux currently arrayed throughout the revel chamber was the perfect backdrop to what he had in mind. with a wave of his hand, he levitated Bellatrix's mummified form to a place where, when her eyes were uncovered, she would be able to see Harry, and beyond him to the tumbling, airborne Death Eaters. He left her feet a few inches off the ground and concentrated on the wrappings restraining her. Gradually, the bandage-like strips became transparent and melted into one another. Soon, Bellatrix was hovering encased in what appeared to be a block of resin. Harry allowed a bubble to form in front of her mouth so that she would be able to answer his questions. He was a little surprised to find that, as the opaque coverings over Bellatrix's eyes became clear, she did not seem surprised in the least to see her fellow Death Eaters rotating in mid-air. But Harry believed that Bellatrix must have always been a bit mad. A defeat such as tonight's could well have driven her into a completely delusional state. Harry didn't really care. So long as she could tell him where her husband was, she could imagine whatever she wished.

"Bellatrix," he said calmly, his voice echoing as he amplified it with enough magic that his words would reach the woman through the resinous block in which she was trapped. "Where is Rodolfus?"

Cackling gleefully, Bellatrix shrieked her reply. "You'll never find him! Never! He will strike from nowhere! He will avenge me, and free our Lord! And we will rule the Earth together!"

Harry gave a tiny sigh, and clearly stated, "Veritas." Then, once again, "Bellatrix. Where is Rodolfus?"

Bellatrix's reply was as clear and composed as that of a court reporter reading back testimony. "The carriage house, Oak Bough Manor, Thicket on the Knoll, Ramsbottom, England."

Harry sighed and pushed his glasses back into place, massaging the bridge of his nose thoughtfully once he had done so. "I suppose I'll have to go," he said, worrying about the many things he would have to accomplish and the small amount of time available to him. "Bellatrix," he began again, but the woman had thrown off the effects of his last spell, and began shrieking at him again.

"Your cause is hopeless! You can never stop something so perfect, so fated, so necessary as the Dark Lord's crusade! If it's not us, it'll be the next people who are both intelligent enough to see the truth and brave enough to stand up for it! Muggles are our inferiors! Mudbloods are freaks of nature! Giants, elves and centaurs are monsters! House elves and goblins are only tolerable in their proper place! Human witches and wizards are the next step in the long, upward progress of sapient beings! All other so-called 'people' are Neanderthals, sports and mutants!"

Harry was impressed despite himself. He had not dispelled his own Veritas. For Bellatrix to have forced her raving through that magical inhibition must have taken a tremendous effort of will. Either that or she truly believed in Voldemort's poisonous philosophy. "Tell me, Bellatrix: Can you cast spells without a wand?"

Harry's calm, serious question took Bellatrix aback, coming as it did in the midst of her own hyperbolic rant. The boy's seemingly genuine curiosity piqued her own. Why would he possibly want to ask such a thing? "I don't point my wand at myself to apparate, if that's what you mean," she sneered at him.

Harry spread his hands wide. "I don't use one at all. By your own logic, I am your superior, and you should already be extinct."

Bellatrix looked thoroughly sick for just an instant, then bared her teeth in a cruel grimace. "Wrong, Potter," she grated. "You haven't a line. There is no descent from you. There is no female of your kind. You can't breed when there is only one individual of your species, boy. You aren't the next step - you're another mutant, a sport. Powerful, but a monster just the same. And you'll die out alone and unsucceeded by any others of your sort."

Harry seemed to consider this for a moment, then said, "Veritas. Bellatrix, what are Rudolfos' plans?"

Fighting against Harry's magic at every instant, Bellatrix struggled to say, "To retire at age one thousand at the height of his power while ruling the world at the side of our Dark Lord."

Harry had suspected as much before, but this answer confirmed the idea for him. Bellatrix LeStrange was going to provide him as much of a disposal problem as Voldemort himself. With her monomania combined with her force of will, she would be truly terrible as a ghost. Harry imagined her becoming a sort of super-powered Peeves, driven by real hatred in place of the poltergeist's mischievousness. She had already escaped Azkaban. There would be little point in sending her back there. Once again, Harry faced an enemy he would be unable to kill or imprison. He tried his question once again. "Bellatrix. What are Rudolfos' plans for the rest of tonight and Halloween?"

Bellatrix's glare of hatred told Harry that he had asked correctly this time. Despite her fury, the Death Eater's voice was clear and composed as she reported, "Rudolfos is to attack the muggle village of Ramsbottom from the south. He is to kill its people and destroy its structures, with especial emphasis on obliterating a colony of artists living there. Voldemort hates one of the writers in particular, and considers the entire group far too uppity for muggles."

Harry wondered about that in silence for a moment. "Special assignments to attack artists," he mused. Bellatrix smirked at him. Harry hadn't asked a question, so she was uncompelled to make any response. "Were there more such special assignments?"

Bellatrix beamed proudly. "I was to lead the team that would destroy the industrial center of Manchester."

"But you're here," Harry argued. "Why is Rudolfos at Ramsbottom?"

Bellatrix showed him an expression that was like a psychotic's nightmare of a shy smile. Almost coyly, she explained, "This was my party night. Even the most compatible couples need to enjoy themselves apart from one another from time to time. Rudolfos gets embarrassed when I put aside my inhibitions and revel to the fullest."

'He more likely gets disgusted,' Harry thought, fighting his own queasiness. He hadn't the time nor the inclination to argue with Bellatrix LeStrange, though. There was far too much to decide, far too much to be done.

From beyond the open door, a sharp report testified to the arrival of some apparator. Harry hoped that it was Snape and Remus, but he couldn't take a chance. "Conglacio," he said absently, flicking a hand toward the block that encased Bellatrix. Like Wormtail before her, she was rendered completely immobile except for her eyes. Harry took up a defensive stance, using the motionless form of Voldemort as cover.

Remus' voice drifted in from beyond the opened door. "Harry! We're here to help you! We..." Remus came into view, moving slowly, with his hands in full view, holding his wand loosely to appear as unthreatening as possible. He had seen some of the things Harry was capable of during the past few days of intensive training, and the last thing he wanted was to surprise the boy and suffer an attack. But as the werewolf entered the revel room, he simply stopped and gaped, wide eyed, at the scene before him. "What in Hell is this?" he finally managed to ask.

Harry strode across the room toward him, explaining and cancelling spells as he progressed. "It's a group of muggles that have been very badly abused and need medical care. They need to be returned to their homes, and they will require obliviation. Finite incantatem," as Harry spoke the words of the cancelling spell, the Death Eaters ceased to turn in mid air. "Finite incantatem," he repeated, and the Death Eaters fell to the ground. "Voldemort's followers are in these wrappings," he announced. "Finite incantatem," the brilliant lumos he had cast faded away, leaving the room lit once again by only torches and his hovering fireball. "That's him standing frozen there, and those are Bellatrix and Pettigrew, over there. Finite Incantatem," The fireball winked out of existence. Harry faced Remus and Snape. "This will be difficult. The best thing to do would be to release these people two at a time, and have the two of you apparate them to Saint Mungo's. Once they have been treated, they can be sent home and made to disremember all of this. But there's no guarantee that any of them will have the patience to wait at Saint Mungo's for attention, and it's almost certain that a majority of them will not trust anyone in wizard's robes. Getting them healed, home and happy will be a lot like herding cats."

"Mister Potter," Snape interjected as soon as Harry took a breath. "The staff at Saint Mungo's were quite impressed with your accomplishments here tonight. They were equally astounded at the manner in which you transported the entire gathering of victims simultaneously. They are expecting a sudden influx of muggle victims. May I suggest that, should we be able to deliver these unfortunates to the hospital in a similar fashion, that our responsibility for them would be over?

"No, you may not," Harry said flatly. "One of the things I hate most about the Fudge government is that they do things half-arsed. How am I going to claim to be better than they are if I act just the same?"

"Practicality occasionally makes demands of even the best of us," Snape replied. "Might you consider at least allowing the obliviation to be carried out by professionals?"

"Damnit, Severus!" Harry shouted, watching the potions master flinch at the use of his given name. "These people are ours! We may have saved them from death by torture, but that's not enough! It's going to be hard for each one of them to return to their own lives with no better excuse than, 'I'm sorry - I don't remember what happened to me. Or what I did. Or where I was!' They're going to have to answer to their own families. And they may have to answer to their muggle authorities, as well. They may be accused of crimes because they won't have an alibi for the whole time they've spent being kidnapped and victimized! At the very least, they'll be accused of being on drugs because of their memory loss!"

"So you are saying... Mister Potter..." Snape said with a heavy emphasis on the Mister. "That Remus and I should drop by the local muggle authorities' headquarters for each neighborhood in which these victims reside, and that we should explain to them... what? That we are a magical society, completely separate from theirs, that has existed in parallel with their own for thousands of years? That one of our number hates all of their kind? That he and his followers were powerful enough to kidnap all of these people, and were planning to kill their victims for entertainment? And that the muggles really shouldn't worry about that because an even more powerful wizard rose up and defeated the miscreants?"

Harry watched Snape's rant quite calmly, then asked, "Don't you think it's rather stupid the way we have been living for thousands of years?"

"No, I don't," Snape replied coldly.

"Separate, secret, hidden...?" Harry prodded.

Remus interrupted the escalating argument with his own assessment of the situation. "Harry, if I had to choose between calling our policy of secrecy from the muggle world either 'brilliant' or 'stupid,' I would go with brilliant without a qualm. You know as well as I do how a majority of wizards feel about werewolves. A great number of muggles feel the same way about anyone or anything that... Harry, think of your aunt and uncle. There's the attitude personified."

"That's fear," Harry said disgustedly. "And fear comes from ignorance, right?"

"It also comes from being damn sure you're totally outclassed and wouldn't have a chance in a contest," Remus said sadly. "There are lots more of them than there are of us. That has always been their only advantage. But if anyone were to be given a choice between the two, muggle would come out second best every time. You can imagine how they would feel if they knew that wizards existed... but that no muggle could ever become one."

"If we can get them to the hospital," Snape suggested, "The staff there could sedate the entire group if necessary. There will be aurors all over Saint Mungo's to interview those victims you rescued that have already been delivered into the hospital's care. We can work with those aurors to get teams of ministry obliviators involved. The government will have a serious interest in containing the repercussions of this event."

Harry looked hard at the man. "I want to be certain that each of these people gets home. Tonight," he said with grim seriousness.

"We'll get them there, Harry," Remus pleaded. "But we can't do it alone. There are too many. And we need the medical help before we can even start. Send us to the hospital."

"Professor Snape. Apparate to Mungo's now. Get the staff ready. Make sure they are prepared to sedate a very panicked crowd." Harry ordered. Snape stepped back through the doorway and apparated away.

"Remus. When I release these people, they will be unaware of anything that has happened since I cast that spell on them. They are frightened, hurt and running toward the only way out they could see - that doorway. Call to them. Offer them an escape. Then use this..." Harry reached out toward Remus and another of the reflective spheres floated into the werewolf's grasp. "Just squeeze it. You and everyone with you will be transported."

"What... is it?" Remus asked, turning the ball around to examine it from all sides.

"It's nothing more than a portkey," Harry said with an ironic half-smile. "One reason I was thinking about putting the wizarding and muggle worlds together... the idea of merging the two came from that very device I just gave you. Muggles have the advantage of numbers, as you pointed out. But they're also quite inventive. Talk to Arthur Weasley about that - he has more entertaining examples than I do, and I lived with muggles until I went to Hogwarts. The muggles I lived with weren't very inventive, as it happened. But wizards are downright lazy when it comes to invention. We're all about tradition, and doing things exactly the same way for thousands of years! Apparation was discovered when? About the time of Adam and Eve? And portkeys have been around since ancient times. As the years have gone by, wizards have learned to hide portkeys in various disguises, but they haven't learned to do anything new with them. I came up with that 'Apparation Ball' in about five minutes last night, while I was thinking about what to do if I had to evacuate a bunch of victims from the revel. Like those people there. I was applying muggle style thinking to a magic problem, and it really helped." Harry knew that if Remus was still as skeptical as he seemed to be, that the majority of wizards and witches would require a much more persuasive argument before any of them acknowledged any benefit to muggle-style thinking. "All right, Snape must have told them about you and the muggles by now. Get ready." Remus walked through the door and shouted that he was prepared. "I'll be setting them free in three... two... one..."

It worked perfectly. The muggles resumed their flight toward the doorway, Remus called them to what he promised was an escape. They followed, and when the last one left the revel room, Remus squeezed the device and he and all of the muggles apparated away. Harry took a deep breath. He hadn't realized how worried he had been. But now that the victims were all sent away, he felt a great calm descend upon him. It was time for his major work of the evening, for which everything else had been mere preparation. He turned back toward Voldemort and smiled.

The solution to the dilemma of how to dispose of the Dark Lord had come to him as he had been speaking to the witches and wizards who had been kidnapped by the Death Eaters. Harry had already concluded that he couldn't kill Voldemort's body, couldn't destroy Voldemort's soul, and couldn't trust any prison to hold him. But while addressing the prisoners he had freed, Harry stopped thinking so rigidly. Once he had rejected the traditional, judicial-style punishments like jail and execution, Harry understood that what he really wanted to do to Voldemort was to force the Dark Lord to experience the kind of suffering that his own evil had inflicted on other people.

A very poetic, appropriate punishment would have been to force Voldemort to live with Dudley Dursley as the fat boy's little cousin. But Harry knew that even if Voldemort didn't simply kill Dudley as soon as he saw him, the Dark Lord would have no reason to try to make the best of being stuck with the Dursleys as Harry had been forced to do. So Voldemort would have to be demoted to a station even less prestigious, offering even less freedom and even fewer choices, than that of 'Little Cousin.' He would have to become one of Dudley's possessions.

Harry smiled coldly, picturing Dudley's room. It was invariably filled with playthings of all sorts: toys and games and sporting equipment. On those rare occasions when Harry actually got to look into Dudley's precious room, the fat boy would point out his new favorite, whatever it may have been each time, emphasizing the fact that Harry did not, could not, and would not ever have one of his own.

Dudley's favorite type of toy, far and away, was the action figure. He had figures of heroes from the telly and characters from the funny papers. He had figures of sports stars from nearly every popular team. He had figures of people and funny animals and weird monsters that Harry didn't recognize because he wasn't allowed to read Dudley's comic books, and he was never treated to a showing of any of the movies that had inspired the toys.

Harry visualized some of the figures. They all had many qualities in common. There would be a brightly colored cardboard backing board supporting the whole package. The top of the board would be formed into a hook, or otherwise might have a simple hole punched near the top to allow the package to be hung, several in a row, on long rods that extended from a toystore's wall. There would be a large, clear plastic blister set onto the cardboard to keep the figure protected from the fingers of the curious, as well as to make sure it remained oriented properly: feet downward, face forward. There would be secondary blisters to hold the accessories which every one of the figures seemed to include. The wording on their cardboards was always bombastic, with starbursts around key words like 'New.' The more Harry thought about it, the more appropriate it seemed that the great and terrible Voldemort would become a plastic toy, trapped on a cardboard sheet under a plastic bubble. It would be important that Voldemort remain conscious of what he was and where he was. He would have to retain the senses of hearing and vision. But he would have to be completely unable to move or to communicate in any way. And rather than giving the figure away to some clueless doofus like Dudley, Harry would keep the package - unopened, to retain it in mint condition - for himself.

His cold smile still in place, Harry stared at the frozen form of Voldemort. This would be far too subtle a process to involve such a gross implementation as voicing a spell. Voldemort's fate would have to be fully visualized, its concept completely set in Harry's mind, and then allowed to blossom forth, directly from thought to reality. Harry concentrated intently. Then, when he felt he was ready, he opened his heart and let the magic flow out.

Harry wasn't sure for a long moment whether he was still imagining the spell he had wanted to craft or whether he was looking at the results of that spell. He walked over to where Voldemort had been standing. There on the floor, waiting for him like a gift from Father Christmas, was a brilliantly colored package.

Its top was rounded, with a hook shape cut into the cardboard. The plastic blister followed the shape of the figure within. The figure was particularly hideous. Its skin looked like burn scars. Its teeth were sharpened fangs just visible inside the partly opened, lipless mouth. It wore a long black robe and an expression of hateful fury. Above the blister, large, curved, bright purple letters with an extended three-dimensional effect read "Voldemort!" Below that, in garish neon green against against a glossy black background was the caption "The Dark Lord." Off to the side, the secondary blister contained the figure's lone accessory. A brilliant gold starburst surrounded the scarlet type that proclaimed, "Now! With Phoenix-Feather Wand!"

Under the plastic lay a tiny twin to Harry's own wand.

Harry might have stood entranced, admiring the package all night, but almost as soon as he touched it, he was interrupted.

Across the room, a blue light appeared near the wall about four feet above the floor. The light grew in size and intensity. It began to show some variations in color, and started to spin. The edges of the blue-glowing area began to billow, like clouds. Then suddenly, the entire thing expanded to nearly seven feet wide and opened up to reveal a cloud-lined tunnel reaching upward and back out of view. Harry was not ready to accept that a stairway to Heaven had just opened for him, so he assumed a defensive posture and waited to be attacked.

The figure that descended the tunnel and walked calmly into the room had expected to surprise Harry. To the newcomer's apparent disappointment, Harry merely nodded and checked the room for anything else that might have been truly unexpected. "Hello, Headmaster," Harry said casually. "Where's Neville?"

Dumbledore had not anticipated that question, at least not quite so soon. His trademark mumbling, usually meant to provide the illusion of absent-mindedness, this time never resolved into anything like coherent speech. "Hrmmm... ahhh... mmmm..."

"You know," Harry encouraged, wearing a vicious grin. "Your other weapon. The other boy who lost his parents to the Dark Wizards. The one other person who fulfils the requirements of the Voldemort-killing prophesy. The one with whom I was not to be allowed to develop a close personal relationship. The Herbology genius. The Longbottom lad. You know... Neville."

Since Harry obviously knew more than the Headmaster had anticipated, Dumbledore resigned himself to admitting more than he had intended. "Neville awaits... in my office... at Hogwarts."

"And knows nothing about where you are now," Harry concluded sourly.

Dumbledore smiled and held up a warning finger. "Neville is a very intelligent young man..." he began.

Harry interrupted curtly. "You didn't tell him where you were going, or who you expected to find, or what was supposed to be happening here, did you? Even though you came here directly from the very room in which Neville sat. That's why you had to use that blue tunnel, isn't it?"

Dumbledore's face lit with genuine pride and satisfaction. The expression made Harry's heart hurt, because it emphasized how false and calculated Dumbledore's posturing usually was. This was the Dumbledore that should have been - researcher, developer, scholar, teacher. A man who could find joy, and bring that joy to others, through the magic he created. "Do you like it?" Dumbledore asked with sincere enthusiasm. "It's my own. All of the restrictions against apparating in and around Hogwarts posed such inconvenience for me. I couldn't very well take down the wards. There were too many genuine security considerations to allow that. So I had to... ahh... circumvent the entire problem. Strictly speaking, this... tunnel, did you say?" He paused to look around and contemplate the spectacular manifestation of his transportation spell. "Yes, it is rather a tunnel, isn't it? But at the same time, it's not. It goes..." He looked back at Harry, scowling in concentration, searching for a proper explanation. "Goes isn't really the right word. It... ahh... exists entirely within another universe altogether. Physical laws are completely different there, you understand." He chuckled reassuringly. "No chance whatever of monsters from another dimension invading us... or of us being able to do more than pass through this little detour while we're there. But the whole arrangement is so... elegant." He smiled, quite pleased with himself.

"And what did Neville think when you opened up a big blue tunnel and disappeared from your office?"

"Neville didn't see it. I was in the... ahh.. adjoining room when I cast my spell. You see, Harry, Neville need not know..."

Harry saw the subtle sign he had been dreading. He had hoped to be able to handle this encounter differently, treating Dumbledore as though the man were a true ally and friend. But the Leader of the Order of the Phoenix was not going to make things that easy for the Boy Who Lived. The overt sign that Harry picked up may have been nothing more than a twitch of Dumbledore's index finger on his wand. But Harry's sense of danger was undeniable. He raised his hand as though signalling a restaurant waiter, and clearly enunciated, "One Moment."

Harry had never been able to repeat his single success at stopping time. But since that success, he had developed a myriad of variations on the basic idea of the time stop, and those had proven reliable by being repeatable at will. Spells such as 'Film Loop' (which before that evening had been cast as 'Redundancio'), 'Conglacio,' his new, more limited 'Stop,' and this one, 'One Moment' - perhaps the most sophisticated of the bunch - were so powerful that their like had never been seen in all of recorded wizarding history.

Albus Dumbledore knew his wizarding history. And he knew more spells - and understood them in greater depth - than any other wizard of which he was aware. As Harry's enchantment developed, Dumbledore marvelled at the effect, an undisguised smile of childlike delight illuminating his face. Too swiftly for him to perceive how it had happened, he and Harry were surrounded by a thick grey fog. There was a hollowness and a strange amplification that affected sounds around the two wizards. Dumbledore thought he could hear his heart beating, and could almost swear that he could hear Harry's, as well. In a mock scolding tone, eyes twinkling merrily, he asked, "Aren't you concerned about what will happen to your prisoners?"

"Not in the least," Harry replied casually. "We exist in time that is unique to this small pocket of existence. While we are in here, no matter how long we stay, nothing whatsoever will take place outside of this little patch of fog. No time will pass at all in the real world." With a slight shrug, he added, "If you kill me now, you will never escape this odd little singularity. You might have convinced yourself that it would be worth sacrificing your own life to be rid of me. But if I should die, you would be here forever. You would never hunger, nor thirst, nor grow any older than you are right now. And I'm not certain that you could ever manage to kill yourself, no matter how horribly you maimed your own body. This would be a particularly sterile Hell, don't you think?"

"Kill you? Oh... ehrm... oh, my dear boy. Harry," Dumbledore groaned in his most appealingly eccentric voice, "I have a great deal of responsibility as the guardian of the free world..."

"Albus." Harry interrupted the Headmaster's rambling quite firmly, and waited just long enough for the Hogwarts Headmaster to realize that his given name had been used quite deliberately. "The War is over. We won. The Death Eaters lie bound in the room we just left... all except for Rudolfos LeStrange, and I know where he is. And Voldemort is right here!" Harry held up the gaudy "Voldemort, the Dark Lord" action figure package for Dumbledore to see - all the while keeping a firm grip on it, and making sure it remained out of Albus' reach. "Your battle is at an end, Albus. You fought hard. You stayed vigilant. You put in more effort and more hours on this fight than anyone else in the world. But it's done, now. The Dark Wizards are my prisoners. I have their leader here in my hand. We are victorious. It's time to celebrate... and then do something else with your life."

"About those prisoners..." Dumbledore began, but Harry was not willing to discuss the matter.

"They're mine. If I want to turn them into toys like this one, I will. If I want to hack them all into bloody gobbets, I will. If I want to keep them bound as they are and slowly starve them to death, I will. If I want to shrink their heads and wear them hung from my belt, that is what I will do. The War is over. But I am the one who won it. The spoils, such as they are, belong to me."

"Harry... Do you really want to do that... to yourself? You are still excited by your... participation in battle. You can talk of torture and killing at this moment with a warrior's determination. But you have been an honorable warrior up until now. You fought - and you won. Don't you think that the disposition of the defeated should be..."

"They're mine," Harry repeated, his face set, his posture telegraphing his determination. "Finishing the battle is as important... No, Albus, it's more important than starting the fight. Any daft arse can start trouble. Handling the consequences - that's where the real work begins. I've already dealt with the repercussions of rescuing the victims from tonight's revel. I have two men working their arses off, and the entire staff of Saint Mungo's dealing with the triage. There was at least one death tonight. One victim's death, that is - a Death Eater or two... or maybe three or four... died when their prisoners were set free, but I'm not counting those. Justifiable homicide, I say. I worry that there may be more bad news yet to come from this disaster, though. The victims were all injured pretty badly, muggles and magic users alike. Their death toll may still rise. I only hope I got them the help they needed in time."

Dumbledore contemplated the boy before him, impressed despite himself. If Potter didn't represent such a dangerous nexus of chaotic, wild magic, he would make some wizard a fine apprentice. His concern for others and apparent sense of responsibility might have made him a worthy apprentice to even such a luminary as Albus Dumbledore. But the boy was a walking bomb, with levels of power that the wizarding world could not allow to roam free. "About those consequences," Albus insisted. "There will be a great deal of concern among the Wizengamut, and within our own government, regarding the people you have captured."

Harry met the older wizard's eyes. He overcame his impulse to shout insults, bark orders, or issue a challenge to the man. Harry knew that he could force their confrontation to become a magical shootout, leaving the loser dead... and most likely leaving the winner crippled or insane. Even if Harry had believed that he could have won such a duel outright, there were so many better ways to manage this meeting that he would not allow a fight to occur. He would have to focus on the crucial issues and hope to be able to convince the flawed - yet undeniably great - man opposite him to see things his way.

"You were never this blatantly ham-fisted in your manipulation of people during my first years at Hogwarts." Dumbledore stared back suspiciously, clearly offended, making no reply. "You used to direct people, to let them feel as though they were working for themselves, following their own ideas. But... oh... about the time of that time-twister escapade you sent Ron and Hermione and me on, you've dispensed with subtlety. You used my summer job this year to keep me separated from Neville, when it was obvious that you were going to use us both as weapons against Voldemort. Why not bring us together, let us work as a team? You know the answer as well as I do. And your other 'weapons' have received equally shoddy treatment from you. You didn't have to alienate and discourage your Order of the Phoenix... but you did. You practically had a rebellion on your hands weeks ago. I wonder how bad the situation has become since then. You didn't have to bring the aurors down onto Professor Snape by hiring a currently active Death Eater as a teacher. But you did. You didn't really even have to lose Professor Sprout in the first place. She loved teaching at Hogwarts. But by the time she left, she was angry with you... and I think she was afraid of you."

Dumbledore's glare of disapproval didn't phase the boy. But as soon as Harry saw he had made his first important point, he changed his approach. "Besides hiring the Death Eater... How much administration have you actually done at Hogwarts during the past year?"

Dumbledore waited until he was sure that Harry's inquiry had not been rhetorical. "Quite a lot more than you might expect, young man. There were two other teaching positions to be filled... not to mention having to staff Herbology once again when Aaron Sepal fled the school. And we do not have endless money, either. Budgets, allocations, and fixing the price of tuition all require a great deal of careful consideration. Reviewing all of the admissions of returning students, and finding those talented individuals to whom we extend our new invitations each year also takes a lot of work."

"I'll give you the hiring," Harry said. "You did that all on your own. But as for everything else... How much of that work did Minerva McGonagal actually do, leaving a neatly finished product for you to put your Headmaster's signature onto?"

"Minerva and I work quite closely," Dumbledore replied warningly.

"And you wasted most of your time this year on a futile Malfoy hunt," Harry snapped, responding to Dumbledore's warning tone with impatience. "And I don't mean an 'unsuccessful' Malfoy hunt - I mean that it was completely futile. You would never have found either person you were looking for, no matter how meticulously you went over your search area. Because you were searching in England, looking for them to make a connection with Voldemort, while the first thing they did when Lucius went to jail was leave the country - and get as far away from any Death Eater as they possibly could."

"Then they posed no threat," Dumbledore nodded sagely. "My actions were taken to protect all of us from any threat they may have posed."

"So you missed the opportunity to get them both on your side. I worked with Draco... and his mother. I still don't like Draco, personally. But he's really not a bad guy. He's snooty. He's full of himself. But he's smart, he's resourceful... and he had no love for Voldemort at all. But you missed all of that, and thereby missed the opportunity to put them to work for you, by being too rigid. Adaptability is the key to survival, Albus."

Dumbledore's eyes focused inward. He appeared to be revisiting a past conversation. Harry gave the man a moment to indulge in memory, then changed subjects again.

"Have you been very active with the Wizengamut this year?"

"The Wizengamut is always busy," Dumbledore lectured. "What on Earth do you..."

"I won't try to be cute," Harry interrupted. "I'll just lay it right out. I admit: the Wizengamut is always busy. The point is, they are busy in groups and committees, in pairs and with individual projects. They're working toward goals set by the group as a whole, with you in the position of leadership. You must be proud of that. But they're working - almost entirely - without you. You make a great figurehead, Albus. You look very impressive. You make very entertaining speeches. You have a fantastic reputation. But the Wizengamut hasn't needed you to do so much as cast a spell on their behalf in years! You don't work with the researchers, you don't go out with the enforcers... and more often than not these days, you're not the one conducting the diplomacy. It makes sense on the surface of it. There are lesser wizards to do all of that experimenting and strong arming and arguing. But what that general policy really says is: 'We don't need you.' The Wizengamut is telling you to settle down, be a figurehead, and let the rest of them do the work of shepherding the development of the wizarding world."

"That's rather harsh, coming from a lad who has not yet passed his N.E.W.T.S."

"It's harsh, but it's backed up by the records of - as well as the publications produced by - the Wizengamut itself. In the past few years, you have publicly presented commendations to two research teams for perfecting refinements to common spells, and you have presided over - but have hardly contributed to - the organization's meetings. You could say that your greatest Wizengamut achievement of the past three years came last March, when you called your meeting back to order six separate times, keeping the focus of the meeting squarely on the question then under discussion, and eventually bringing it to a vote, while avoiding a wizard's duel in the process. That was good mediation. But..."

It was Dumbledore's turn to interrupt. "I am gratified to hear that you approve of my parliamentary procedure. But where did you learn all of this detail? Do you have a... hrmph... spy... who was present at that meeting?"

"I have been studying, Albus. Harder than ever before. Studying history - and not just the dry facts about ancient days, but the current, living history of our own time. And in recent history, you have been a very important man. But as we draw closer to the present day, your contribution becomes particularly one-dimensional. You were the single outstanding opponent of Voldemort. You led the Order, you opposed the government's blindness to the threat of posed by the Dark Lord, and you attempted to repair some of the damage done by Death Eaters. But now the War has been won. It's over. And no one has to look very hard to see that you are tired. Your school is quite effectively being run by your Associate Headmistress. Your Wizengamut is working on the goals you helped to set. Your Order's purpose is complete. And when you have the time to think about your magic, and to work with your magic, you are able to do great things. You have been able to create new spells like that extra-universal blue-cloud travel-tunnel I saw tonight. You need more time to think and work. You need more freedom to accomplish great things. You need to retire, Albus."

Dumbledore shook his head as though trying to clear water out of his ears. "Are you trying to perform a Suggestion on me?"

"No." Harry's denial rang with honesty. "I am trying to tell you the truth. It's not all pleasant. But I hope you can see that I am correct. And I hope you will accept my advice. Retire, Albus."

"And..." Dumbledore prompted.

"And what?"

"There must be an 'And'," the Headmaster smiled. "As in: 'Before you retire, could you do this for me?' Or possibly: 'After you retire, could you do this for me?' I don't think you would be pressuring me to quit so abruptly without having some... ah... assignment that you wished me to accomplish on your behalf. So, I wonder: And... what is is that you want?"

"First of all, I want you to not do something. I want you to not kill me." Harry's request was delivered with such unaffected seriousness that Dumbledore had to laugh, albeit gently and only for a short time.

"You are a dangerous man, Mister Potter," the Headmaster added, still smiling. "Power such as yours must be very... ehrm... difficult to control."

"I've had help. I have more control over my current powers than I had over my more average magic while I was still at Hogwarts."

"And who has helped you achieve such a great deal of control?"

"You know already, Albus. Professor Snape. Remus Lupin. And Narcissa Malfoy."

Dumbledore's obvious flinch at the mention of the last name on Harry's list showed that, even if the Headmaster had suspected as much, he hadn't been sure that Mrs. Malfoy had been involved in Harry's education. "And Professor Snape... as well as Mister Lupin, for that matter... abandoned me and the school immediately before term began... for what reason, Mister Potter?"

Harry pursed his lips and flexed his hands, straining to avoid rising to Dumbledore's bait. Harry was nearly out of patience, but he knew that yielding to temptation and shouting angrily at Albus would only prove the Headmaster's implied contention that Harry was insufficiently mature to control himself. Instead, very calmly, he began to explain. "What have I been telling you, Albus? It's nothing different. They couldn't trust you, anymore. Men who admired you, followed you, owed you a debt of gratitude... even they couldn't trust you. You had become too secretive, too manipulative, too convinced of your own infallibility. You'd become used to leading a War effort. So you risked their lives repeatedly. And each time you did so, you made it harder for either one of them to defend himself. Snape in particular would say, each time he left for a Death Eater meeting, 'If they haven't decided to kill me this time...' as a prelude to any discussion of what he wanted to accomplish. Snape was almost certain that Voldemort knew about his being a double agent, and was only waiting for the proper occasion to kill him."

"Being a spy is never a safe career choice," Dumbledore pointed out.

"But after a certain number of successful missions, every soldier - especially an undercover operative - earns the right to get pulled out of the combat zone! Don't misunderstand me. The difficulty facing you as a leader does not come down to a matter of only one man. I'm not trying to say that because Snape's job was dangerous, your leadership was faulty. You have many more problems than Snape. Before tonight, your whole loyalist force was about to fall apart. Take a veritaserum survey of your Order, Albus. You'll find that none of your other troops trust you any more than Snape or Lupin do. Besides that, you've managed to offend nearly every one of them."

"A military commander cannot afford to worry about whether he's offended his soldiers," Dumbledore scoffed.

"But if he's going to lead through no other authority than his own force of personality, then he has to maintain their trust," Harry insisted.

Dumbledore actually seemed to consider that for a moment. "You have already asked me to not do something on your behalf," Albus said, as though regaining a train of thought that had become derailed. "But I don't believe that is all you had in mind. Weren't you planning to actually have me do something for you, as well?"

"You could do one thing," Harry said cautiously. "It involves no work, only a statement on your part. But in many ways, it could be harder for you than performing a great labor. If you refuse me, I will understand and ask for nothing further. If you examine the request, however, I believe you will see that it ultimately serves the greatest good for the most people, and that it solves many of your worries regarding my current levels of power. It does this by keeping me in the public eye, and forcing me to keep my advisors close to me at all times." Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, waiting for Harry's request. "Endorse me."

"Ahhh... Hrm?"

"For Minister of Magic. There's an election in a few days. My name is famous, recognized by most wizards and witches now living. I have just defeated the greatest threat to our society. I have an advantage due to that victory which I intend to exploit. All I need in order to win is the legitimacy that can only be conferred upon me by the endorsements of well-recognized, well-respected household names. Except by those who are close to you or who have to work with you, you are still one of the most respected wizards in the world. Your endorsement would be very much appreciated."

"You are young, Mister Potter. I don't believe that the law would allow..."

"That's why it has to be a landslide," Harry stated. "And in order to guarantee a landslide, the first person I have to visit would be the incumbent, Minister Fudge."

Dumbledore's lips spread wide in a satisfied smile. "I believe that the MInister may well be forced to cooperate with you." Briefly, the Headmaster outlined the recent development of Fudge's re-election campaign. "He has lionized you," Albus wheezed, "to the point where opposing you would make him seem... quite the fool. At this point... his only practical choice is... ehrm... to join together with you in your effort to become... our government's leader."

"Do you think you would enjoy watching the Minister squirm?" Harry asked mischievously.

"Let's not be immature," Dumbledore cautioned. "Let's just say that I would be interested in seeing... what our leader's reaction will be."

"Where do you imagine Fudge is right now?"

Dumbledore stared off into space, counting the necessary connections that would need to be made in order for his estimation to be accurate. "If your rescued hostages began showing up at Saint Mungo's a half-hour ago..."

"Less," Harry interjected. "Remember, no time at all has passed while we've been talking here."

"Well then," Dumbledore said, and scowled. "We need to allow about an hour from the time the first hostage told his story at the hospital. When the word went out to the Ministry... as it would do... this event would be considered a state emergency from the moment the first patient said 'Death Eaters' ... then whoever was at the Ministry would get in touch with Minister Fudge's staff. Anyone with any sense would contact the Minister straight away. And he would be dressed and at his office... Yes. I believe an hour would do."

"Then we have a little time." Harry made a dismissive hand gesture, and the fog surrounding him and the Headmaster faded away. "There is something I need to do before I call on the Minister," Harry explained apologetically. "And, as you might expect, I can't trust you to remain here with all of my prisoners while I do it."

"Oh... yes... I suppose," Dumbledore murmured agreeably, walking toward the open doorway. "Where are we..."

"Conglacio," Harry said. He waited a few seconds to be sure Dumbledore was really not going to move, then he left the room. A sharp report signalled his apparation. A little while later, another explosive sound heralded his return. Harry walked back into the revel room, carrying something heavy in one hand. His burden dripped copiously, leaving a slick smear on the floor. Harry murmured, "Finite Incantatem," toward Dumbledore and the Headmaster regained the power of movement. Harry held up the severed head he carried by the hair and explained, "Rudolfos LeStrange. Crude treatment, I'll admit, but I didn't have time for anything more delicate." He tossed the still-dripping head over toward Bellatrix, not looking at Dumbledore at all. "In case you're interested," he offered casually. "Voldemort cast Avada Kadavra, Crucio and Imperio on me tonight, all to no avail. I have taken some care to keep myself protected." He turned around with a bounce in his step and a wry smile on his lips. "Shall we go visit the Minister?" Without waiting for a reply, he started toward the one open door in the room.

As Dumbledore followed him out of the revel room, Harry mimed a slapping motion. The revel room door slammed, and there was a distinct sound of stones sliding, as though operating in a heavy lock. Harry placed a further seal on the room, and a magical lock on the door, then turned to examine his surroundings more closely. When he had gone to meet Rudolfos, Harry had expected this room to be Voldemort's throne room. It was not, though there were no furnishings to give any clue as to what it was intended to be. It, too, was of stone, approximately square, though only about a quarter of the size of the immense revel room. Harry wondered how extensive this place was. Only considering the three rooms he knew about, the place would have required a tremendous effort to construct. He knew that he would have to return here, to explore this labyrinth and discover its secrets. If the prisoners within the revel room were his to do with as he wished, this place itself must also be part of the spoils of his war against the Death Eaters. Harry traced a rectangle in mid-air, near the doorway. A glowing outline filled with an opaque membrane appeared in response. Mumbling all the while, he traced the shapes of letters. what he wrote appeared in glowing letters on the membrane.

_S R,_

_Gone for a bit, will return soon._

_Feel free to leave, as the area_

_has been secured._

_H._

He turned to Dumbledore and jauntily suggested, "Fudge's office?"

"Yes..." the Headmaster replied uncertainly. "Do you know where that is?"

"No. You go. I'll follow you."

Dumbledore smiled indulgently and looked down his long nose at the boy. "How do you expect to be able to do that?"

"How do you think I was able to stop time, or shrug off the Death Spell?" Harry countered. Dumbledore nodded his acknowledgement of his own ignorance of how Harry's power operated and apparated away.

Harry stared at the spot from which Dumbledore had disappeared. He strained to focus his eyes, even though he realized that it was not his eyes that were sensing the magical trail he meant to follow. Increasingly during the past few days, Harry had been able to perceive magic in more ways than ever before. Most of the time, he seemed to 'see' a magical effect, usually as a glowing point or a glowing area, depending on the spell. If he hadn't had the looming Halloween deadline to keep him focused, Harry thought he may have been able to completely lose himself in the contemplation of these magical signatures that manifested themselves literally everywhere around a house like the one in Godric's Hollow, where three accomplished wizards lived, casting spells almost constantly. In this case, following Dumbledore's apparation, he could see the residue of the magical energy that had sent the Headmaster on his way, as well as a trail of glowing specks leading away in an impossible direction toward Albus' destination. But he could also see, like a ghostly painting on glass, an image of a place. It was a well-lit office, with people going about their business with a kind of intensity Harry associated with response to an emergency. He could also feel, deep within his chest, a kind of certainty about the location of this place he was seeing. It was in London, inside a building he recognized as the Ministry. For a moment, he thought of Sirius, and nearly abandoned his plan so that he could go back into the revel room and kill every Death Eater in there. But he forced the feeling away. There would be time for revenge later. He examined his feeling about the place, held the image of it in his mind, visualized Dumbledore's path from here to there, and willed himself to follow.

BANG!

Harry appeared in the bustling office of Cornelius Fudge. The Minister was standing immediately in front of Dumbledore, a finger pointing belligerently at the Headmaster's face. Fudge whirled as Harry appeared, and his jaw dropped as his eyes went wide.

"You!" Cornelius gasped. "Uh... Harry!" the Minister's tone changed from outraged surprise to supportive jocularity. "Where have you been? You have had us all worried sick!"

"You had good reason to worry," Harry reported grimly. "I have been locked in battle with the Dark Lord of the Death Eaters. I won."

"Ah, well, that's stupendous," Fudge enthused. "That calls for a celebration!" Then the Minister caught himself and amended his praise with, "That is... you... uh... you make quite a claim for yourself, lad. I mean... are you quite sure you defeated... uh... You Know Who?" Fudge's apparent indecision transmuted to cockiness in an instant. "Have you any evidence of this victory?"

"I don't think you really want him to bring in his most recent trophy," Dumbledore said quietly. "Just before apparating here, I saw young Harry carrying the severed head of Rudolfos LeStrange."

"Ugh!" Fudge reacted immediately to Dumbledore's news. "Severed head. Well. I think not. We'll have no severed heads in the offices of the Ministry."

"You're the one who asked for evidence," Harry said, glowering. Fudge looked sick, as though he were afraid that Harry was about to produce a severed head on the spot. He appeared to be quite relieved when the boy explained, "That's why I brought Professor Dumbledore. As a witness, I thought that the leader of the Wizengamut would be sufficiently trustworthy."

"Well, we can't be too sure, can we?" Fudge pleaded. "We have had erroneous reports in the past regarding... regarding... uh... You Know Who. We can't... we can't just..."

"Voldemort." Harry said loudly and clearly. Everyone in the office stopped to stare at him. "Get used to it. It doesn't mean anything dangerous, anymore. Say it whenever you like. Voldemort. He will not be returning. Voldemort. He threatened us for generations, and now he's gone. Voldemort. I beat him. Voldemort. I rid us of him forever. Voldemort. I fought him and I won. Voldemort. Try it. Say it with me. Voldemort. Voldemort. Voldemort."

Fudge's face was screwed into a grimace as though he were trying to block out a disgusting smell without actually holding his nose. "Well, you say... uh... his name. And you say you won this fight. And you bring... this man... who has made it his career over the past few weeks to slander me in public, I might add. And he says that you defeated... him. But, what I don't see is any evidence that you have actually..."

"DO YOU WANT THE SEVERED HEADS OR NOT?" Harry stood with his fists clenched at his sides. Fudge stepped away from the malice in the boy's glare.

"I... I do not... I do not want any severed heads in this office! Now, understand... think of... What do you mean, coming here like this? You were missing for so long, no one could find you, and you... why weren't you in school? Then Saint Mungo's calls, and they have... they're busy with... the whole hospital is full! There are wizards, witches, muggles... Muggles in Saint Mungo's! And the one... the one thing... the only thing they can agree on is that - wherever they were when they all got so badly hurt - you were there too. So it seems to me that you have some explaining to do, young man."

"Explanation is pretty simple," Harry said flatly, staring at Fudge through narrowed eyes. "Death Eaters kidnapped those people. I freed them. Then I sent them to get medical attention."

"It's all very easy for you to say that while you are standing here in my office..." Fudge blustered, but fell silent as Harry spoke again.

"I know what you've been doing in your reelection campaign."

"What? What do you... What do you mean, what I've been doing?"

"You have been using my name, my personal history and my likeness to provide yourself with an implied endorsement."

"Young man, all that my campaign has been..."

"Fudge." Harry's voice was cold. Cornelius' mouth suddenly became so dry he could not speak another word. "We can do this hard, or we can do this easy. You would prefer easy, believe me. If, however, despite your best interests, you choose hard, here is what I will do. I will publicly compare you to me. That's all. Just hold us up before the public eye, and let the people decide whether they like what they see. For example: I destroyed the Dark Lord Voldemort. You denied his existence. I destroyed Voldemort's inner circle. You allowed them to escape from Azkaban. I developed wandless magic, while you are not even a competent..."

"What?" Fudge bellowed, finding his voice again through his outrage at what he had heard. "Do you think people are idiots? Do you think... think that anyone... anyone will fall for such a..."

"Oh, God, this again," Harry growled. "Nox. Incendio. Wingardium Leviosa." In quick succession, the lights went out in Fudge's office, a fireball appeared above Harry's head, and all of the furniture in the room floated gently up to rest on the ceiling. Illuminated only by the light of his own fireball, Harry raised his hands and lowered them slowly. The office furniture regained its place on the floor. "Finite Incantatem." The fireball disappeared, and the lights shone once again. "In short," Harry said into the shocked silence, "Yes, I do expect people to believe that I have developed wandless magic. And to recognize that you are..." he thought a moment before concluding, "not as accomplished."

"But what could possibly be the point of all this," Fudge demanded, clearly as confused as he was astounded.

"You haven't let me tell you the easy choice," Harry criticized. "Listen to the easy choice. Then you'll understand." Harry waited to make sure Fudge wasn't about to protest further, then explained, "The easy choice is simple. You withdraw your name from the upcoming ballot, and endorse me for Minister of Magic."

Fudge waited, watching Harry carefully, as the boy's words, so nearly incomprehensible to the Minister, worked their way through the many layers of denial in his mind. When Fudge finally decoded what had been said, he blinked slowly twice and in a dull voice, spoke one syllable: "No."

"You're saying you would prefer to do this the hard way?" Harry asked calmly.

Fudge shook his head uncomprehendingly. "I am the Minister of Magic," he said carefully. "I... I won't... I won't remove my name from the ballot. For what? To let a... a boy... run for the top wizarding office in the land? Ridiculous. We can't have a boy in the Minister's office. It' s a man's job. He glanced swiftly at several witches, who were all important members of his staff. "Ah... that is... an adult's job. Adult. Not... not a boy. And why... for Merlin's sake, why would you wish to supplant me as Minister? I am the Minister of Magic. I will run and I will be reelected to..."

"You only got the job because Albus Dumbledore didn't want it. And you should be kicked out of the office for inflicting Dolores Umbridge on me, alone," Harry grated.

Fudge looked scandalized. "Dolores Umbridge is a dedicated public servant..."

"LOOK WHAT THE BITCH DID TO ME!" With a thought, Harry stripped away the glamour that had hidden the damage done by Umbridge's Writing Punishment, and held his right hand high so that everyone in the office could see the scars reading 'I will not tell lies.'

"So," Fudge accused, trying to appear confident, "You were telling her lies, were you?"

"You sent her to run a SCHOOL, and she ends up CARVING the CHILDREN! Does that sound like good government to you? I think it'll sound a Hell of a lot worse to parents who have their children in school right now, don't you?"

"What I think," Fudge said sternly, "is that you have a lot of claims and accusations, and... apart from your wandless magic... (good job on that, by the way, capital achievement)... you can't prove anything. How can I possibly... how can anyone possibly believe that Dolores Umbridge did... did that to you? How do I know that you defeated... You Know Who? It's just your word. Your... unsupported... word."

"You know how people are," Harry said, apparently bored with the whole discussion. "They want heroes. And they distrust those in power. Right now, I am going to look like a hero. And you are going to look untrustworthy. The only question is: Will I be able to make you look bad enough that you will never be elected to public office again? Or are you going to help me, join me, get on board the Boy Who Lived Express and become part of the winning team? It's up to you. I really don't care one way or the other."

Fudge smirked at the boy. "You are young. You have no idea how a well-oiled political machine works. Do your worst. You don't have a chance of significantly tarring my reputation. People do have some distrust of those in power, it's true. But those same people reelect the incumbent ninety eight percent of the time. Wouldn't you say, Mister Constantine?"

One of Fudge's staff members stepped forward and nodded a greeting to Harry. "I'm Deckard Constantine, Minister Fudge's Chief of Staff. It occurs to me, Harry, that when you are elected to the Ministership, you will need an experienced Chief of Staff to help you get acclimated to the political landscape."

Harry smiled at the man. "I believe, if all goes to plan, that I already have a Chief of Staff in place. However, I will need someone to help me over the unfamiliar ground, as you say."

"An Office Manager? Political Consultant? You can tailor the title. And it doesn't have to be a permanent position. You could arrange to provide for such an officer to serve with you for the first year, or..."

"Deckard!" Fudge shouted. "What are you…"

"Stop," Harry said quietly, and watched the reactions of everyone in the office as Fudge froze instantly in mid-rant. "Finite Incantatem."

Fudge quickly looked around the room, searching for support. "That is assault," he said. "I am Minister of Magic, and I will not be assaulted in my own office."

"Easy way or hard?" Harry asked, ignoring Fudge's protest.

"Get Out!" Fudge bellowed.

"I'll check back with you. Think about it, Cornelius. You can only lose by fighting me. Good to meet you, Mister Constantine. We'll be in touch. Professor Dumbledore, please think about what I said. And please... do not return to where we spoke last. That situation, as I told you, is mine to clean up in my own way. I do not want any interference." With a smile and a smooth bow to the rest of the Minister's staff, Harry apparated away.

"Does he have his apparation license?" Fudge demanded. "I'll have him jailed for apparating without a license. No one can flout the law like that..."

With a nod and a wave, Dumbledore apparated away.

Deckard Constantine stared at the spot from which the Headmaster had disappeared. "Albus Dumbledore?" he asked lazily. "Oh, yes. I believe he does have his apparation license. But I can always check."

As harry reappeared in the plain stone room, he first checked his glowing note. It had not changed colors, so neither Remus nor Snape had come here while he had been gone. He then dispelled his magical lock on the door to the revel room, and cast a standard Alohamora to unlock the sliding stone mechanism. His room seal was not sounding an alarm, so that should mean that the room beyond was still secure. He dispelled the seal and pushed open the door. He first checked to make sure that Bellatrix and Pettigrew remained where he had left them. Then he looked around the room, trying to estimate how many Death Eaters were there. They appeared to have remained undisturbed since he had left, and that was encouraging. Harry's real concern had been that Dumbledore would have beaten him here, and tampered with the scene in some way. Harry was feeling a bit more confident about that as he surveyed the room. Dumbledore was tricky, but Harry thought he might have actually earned the title he had imagined for himself: Master of Time. The glowing blue tunnel still rotated ominously near one wall. Harry went to the mouth of it to see what might be revealed within. He jumped back in shock as he saw Albus Dumbledore standing there, quite calmly, still within the confines of the tunnel itself.

"How many spells did you need to cast to get there?" Harry asked, neglecting to hide the surprise his voice betrayed.

"Only two. Apparation from the Minister's office, and another one of these, to connect to this one."

"Very efficient," Harry said, trying to sound confident enough - and competent enough - to compliment Albus Dumbledore on his magic use.

"You did well at the Ministry," Albus smiled encouragingly. "Although I think that Stopping the Minister may have been a bit... er ... cheeky. That action may rebound to harm you. All in all, I don't think you have given me quite enough good reason to retire. I believe I shall be staying at Hogwarts... and with the Wizengamut... and in the Order... for some time."

"That's yours to decide," Harry said, clearly disappointed. "But if that's the case... this is my... uh... this is secure... a secured area. Please remove your... extra-universal blue-cloud transportation tunnel from the secured area."

Dumbledore looked particularly mournful. He spoke slowly. "I understand that it is only experience that can show you how... particularly... horrible it is to pass judgement, and then to carry that judgement out... on anyone. Let alone on the number of people you have here. You will have to learn by doing it. And you will have to do it with the knowledge that, should you allow any of these criminals to escape justice, the whole pattern of the Death Eaters' secret war will start all over again. Once I seal this tunnel, you will have no help. But you will know that everyone - from the Minister to those victims you rescued to me - will be watching you. And judging you. Are you absolutely certain that you wouldn't rather..."

"Close the tunnel," Harry commanded.

"Very well," Albus sighed. "Goodbye, young Mister Potter. You will be much older in a few hours."

The tunnel collapsed. And Harry turned back to his work.

The first order of business, now that Harry had turned Dumbledore away, had to be checking for hidden surprises. Harry could hardly believe that Dumbledore would simply have retreated without leaving something behind to interfere with... or at least spy on... whatever Harry planned to do there. The boy cast a detection spell, looking for eavesdropping spells and finding nothing. He cast several more spells of similar type, each with a slight variation in focus. He looked for spells that could ambush him, or explode when he walked near the place they had been cast. He looked for traps that would activate with a touch, as a portkey might. He looked for hidden eyes. And he searched for hidden ears.

There was something about that last search that bothered him. He could detect no ear present in the revel room, but somewhere in the complex there was almost certainly a listening device in operation. Harry had to wonder whether the thing was a leftover from Voldemort's reign of paranoia, or whether Dumbledore had found some way to place it in the few seconds during which he and Harry had left this room to apparate to the Minister's office. Whatever the answer was, the ear was not within the confines of the room in which Harry would be working, so he shook his head and forced himself to stop worrying about it for the time being. He had already promised himself a thorough exploration and examination of Voldemort's hideout - he could find and disable the device then.

Harry looked at the size of the job waiting for him and - for just a moment - wondered if Dumbledore may have been right after all. But he considered the alternatives to his own plan and soon had to admit that none of those were at all satisfying. His way, at least, would get the job done properly, even if he had to admit that completing his task would take many hours, or even days.

Before he could lose heart again, he walked to face Bellatrix, where she floated in her resin-block prison. He kicked the block so that it spun far enough for Bellatrix to see her husband's head lying on the floor.

"I may be wrong, but I hope I'm right," Harry said, watching to make sure Bellatrix's eyes had rotated far enough to see the grisly trophy. "I never thought he was as... determined as you are. He was evil, beyond a doubt. But I don't believe he will return as a ghost to haunt the places he lived, or that his body will rise as a headless zombie. All that was required for the world to be rid of Rudolfos was that he be killed. You, on the other hand..."

Harry concentrated on Bellatrix, feeling for the clues that would determine how he could transform her into something less perilous - something that could be allowed to continue to exist. "Your victim had the right idea," Harry mused. "Knives into you, over and over..." he concentrated harder, visualizing the shape that Bellatrix was to take. "And it's appropriate," he mumbled. "While you reveled, you wished to be multiply-penetrated, didn't you...?" A definite shape suggested itself to Harry. The shape seemed wrong at first. Then, as Harry considered it further, it seemed more and more appropriate until he had no doubt at all. In her new shape, Bellatrix would have eight legs, as a spider does. Her body would be bulbous and bloated, like a spider's abdomen. She would be covered with tiny hairs. She would be almost fuzzy, the way some tarantulas appear to be. But she would be bright red, except for her face, which would look like the one she wore as a human - except that she would have no mouth, and her nostrils would not be open to the air. She would not need to be able to smell or taste. But it would be a part of her ongoing punishment that she could see and hear that which surrounded her. And of course, in this particular form, she would be able to feel.

Harry concentrated, nearly entranced, visualizing what Bellatrix was to become. He was brought back from his preoccupation by a tiny tinkling sound emanating from a place very near the wall racks.

Harry crossed the room in search of the source of the tiny metallic pinging. He had to look carefully. The sound had lasted for only a couple of seconds, then had died away. Harry cast a lumos which glowed from less than a meter off of the floor. What he was looking for gave itself away by glittering beneath the illuminating spell. He scooped his prize carefully into one hand. There were many individual items all together, and they were all sharp. They had been transfigured from the weapons the Death Eaters had used to torment their prisoners.

Pins.

Harry went back to where Bellatrix lay on the stone floor. She was only a few inches long, now, lying limply like a spider on its back. "These are yours," Harry said, and very deliberately shoved each of the pins deeply into the pincushion Bellatrix had become. "You will be a present," he promised. "To someone who will get quite a great deal of satisfaction from using you for your primary purpose from now on." Carefully, Harry put the Voldemort package and the Bellatrix pincushion together near the wall, far away from any of the bound Death Eaters. He turned to Pettigrew.

"I hate you, you know," he said, completely without inflection. "I saved your life. Sirius and Remus would have killed you. But I saved your life. Then you ran away. You repaid me with this. You betrayed my parents. When I lost them, my childhood was ruined. You betrayed me. Once you had fled from captivity, my worst enemy was given a new life, with a new body, in a ceremony that killed my friend and used my own blood. Now, you have betrayed your own kind. Your master, your master's associates, and your master's followers are all going to suffer. And I want you to be able to watch it all happen, so you have some idea of how appallingly you have fucked up. Just remember this: It's all your fault."

Harry considered the immobile form standing in front of him. "You're not quite right. Not the way I think of you. You should really be more of a rat." Harry held out one hand, fingers splayed, toward Peter's face. He pulled backward slowly, drawing his fingers closer and closer together. Pettigrew's face stretched into a rat-like muzzle. Harry made some quick flicking motions with his fingers. Peter grew whiskers. Harry scowled, still not quite satisfied. He described the shape of a J in mid-air with one finger. Pettigrew sprouted a long, hairless tail. "Better." Harry said with a definite nod. "Now Peter, I will definitely need your arm. I don't really want to simply hack it off, especially now that you're looking so very like yourself. But I don't want to haul around a big old Wormtail wherever I go just so I can have your arm handy. Let's compress you a bit, shall we?"

Harry held his hands out in front of himself, palms facing. He pressed his hands together, and Pettigrew's body was crushed as though in a giant vice. Harry moved his hands so that one was directly above the other. He pressed them together again and Pettigrew was crushed into a shorter shape. Harry kept working in this way until all of Peter was compressed into the size of a standard building brick, with his left arm sticking out like a handle. Altogether, Peter looked like a sledgehammer. Harry picked him up and tried a couple of test swings, then went to the bank of drums, located the largest gong in the collection and swung Peter at it with all his might. The crashing report was very loud, but Harry was certain that it had been even moreso for Pettigrew. Harry checked the protruding arm. The Dark Mark was exposed and undistorted. "Summoning tool," Harry muttered, and put the sledgehammer next to his pincushion, severed head and action figure. All of the tasks he had most wanted to complete were done. The real heavy lifting portion of the evening was just about to begin.

Harry took stock of himself for a moment. If he was too tired, or likely to let his concentration slip, he would not be able to carry out the next portion of his plan. He thought he was all right, but wondered if his apparent energy was merely leftover adrenaline that might leave him suddenly tired and sleepy in the midst of this, the largest portion of tonight's work. He sat heavily on the floor as he realized why he was not feeling as good as he thought he should feel. This ought to have been the most triumphant moment of his entire life. He had turned Voldemort into a helpless toy. He had killed Rudolfos LeStrange and crafted Bellatrix into a present for Neville. He had challenged Fudge for the Ministership and told Dumbledore to go retire. But at the end of it all, he sat alone.

He should have had Hermione and Ron with him. They should have planned this together, and they should be celebrating together right now. Harry thought his friends might understand, if he explained the entire story to them. But he knew that Ron would be offended and Hermione would immediately suggest a dozen ways he could have kept in touch without compromising his security. They were both probably already angry with him, and would most likely be hurt and somewhat distant when he ever saw them again. They were in school, he was here with a room full of bound Death Eaters. They were in love, he was alone. They had families, he hoped to never see his closest blood relative again.

Mouth twisting bitterly, Harry made a slapping motion at the door, slamming it shut. He cast a magic lock as well. Remus and Snape may return while he was in the middle of this, and he did not want to be interrupted at a crucial juncture.

He chose a Death Eater at random, and made a wiping motion with his hand in the Death Eater's general direction. That person's bandages began to loosen, and they neatly folded away from his face. Harry saw he had chosen a man who was probably in his mid-thirties, with blonde hair and a square jaw. The man glared sullenly out of the remnants of his bindings without saying a word.

"Get up," Harry ordered. The man squirmed a bit but did not seem to be making much progress. "Come on, Harry prompted. "It's not that tough. The lock's been taken off. Shrug the damn bandages aside and stand up." The man made deliberately futile shrugging motions as though to emphasize his mockery of his captor. "Or, I can kill you where you lie," Harry added, and the blonde man twisted and flexed, forcing his way out of the remaining bandages like a snake removing an old skin. "Better," Harry said sourly as the last of the bandages fell away from his captive. "Now get to your feet. I want to see who I have..."

In retrospect, Harry thought that the clue he should have picked up on was the way the blonde man was staring at Harry's hands. He was, of course, looking for a wand. And not finding one, he thought he was safe from magical attack. The blonde man was quite fit, more muscular than the average wizard, but without the flabby softness of some of the Death Eaters' thugs. When he thought Harry was off guard, he launched himself in a flying tackle, wrapping his arms around Harry's waist and driving the boy to the ground. As the Death Eater drew his fist back in preparation for a punch, Harry lifted his hands to the man's face. The Death Eater didn't mind Harry's weak defense. He wasn't planning on punching Harry with his face, in any case, and his fist was still free. He drove his heavy hand down toward the boy pinned to the floor below him.

Harry shouted. But not the incoherent scream of fear the Death Eater expected. Instead, it was a Latin word: "Incendio!"

The blonde man's head exploded in a gout of flame. His heavy fist, robbed of its driving power when the brain attached to it was reduced to ash, continued to fall without direction. The punch still managed to hit Harry in the head, making the boy see stars for a moment.

Harry struggled out from beneath the dead weight of the headless man lying on him. Reflexively, he brushed at his clothing as though to dislodge any death that may have settled there. He pushed himself to his feet and backed away from the corpse. "Right," he said, taking a deep breath "Right. That went well."

Harry forced himself to look at the smoldering stump of the Death Eater's neck. He reviewed the many things he could have done instead of killing the man. He could have frozen him, levitated him away, transfigured him into a flea...

Harry struggled to regain control over his thoughts. Transfiguration would have taken too long to afford him a reasonable defense. Levitation would also have worked too slowly. That, most likely, would have allowed the Death Eater to get in at least one blow, and without knowing what sort of combat skills the man possessed, Harry could not have accepted that consequence. Even if one blow from the Death Eater would have been very unlikely to have killed Harry outright, it might have stunned him, even rendered him unconscious. And, had Harry remained unconscious for even a short time, a trained killer could have ended his life even without a wand or a weapon.

But freezing would have been effective. Conglacio would have worked. Harry might have been able to put forth the energy to cast a full Stop if he had been sufficiently frightened.

But he had not been merely frightened. He had panicked. And panicking was the worst thing he could have done.

Harry's panic had killed that man... not that the Death Eater wouldn't have fought against his fate and died anyway... but Harry knew he could not afford to panic again. That experience had already taught him valuable lessons. He knew more about what to watch for, and what to beware of. He chose another Death Eater at random and waved away the magical seal on that one's Bindimus charm.

When that Death Eater stood, he was revealed to be short, skinny, dark haired, nearly naked... and extremely nervous.

"Who are you?" Harry barked. The thin man jumped at the sound. His reply was punctuated by nervous laughter.

"I...ah... ha ha ha hi...I... uh... is this a test?" His eyes swept the room, looking for anyone recognizable.

"LOOK AT ME!" Harry shouted. The thin man complied instantly, at the same time folding his shoulders in toward his chest to make himself seem smaller. "Buh... because... if this is a test," he babbled, eyes flicking from side to side, but returning to stare at Harry between each flick, "I'm loyal. I'm a loyal man, and... and I don't scare easily." He waited for Harry to congratulate him. When the boy only stared silently, the thin man raised one fist into the air, and weakly cheered, "Voldemort Forever!"

Harry's sour expression never changed. "Do you know who I am?"

The thin man's entire demeanor changed. With the relaxed confidence that comes with total honesty, he looked Harry directly in the eye and said, "No, I don't. I've never seen you before in my life. Are you new?"

"No, I'm eighteen years old," Harry informed the man, who continued staring in bafflement.

"I am Harry Potter, better known as the Boy Who Lived."

"Who?"

Harry stared at the man. There was not a trace of mockery or sarcasm in his demeanor. He truly did not have a clue as to who Harry was. "Don't you read newspapers?" Harry demanded.

"Not if I can help it. Which I can. So, no. I don't."

"And your leader, your Dark Lord of the Death Eaters, your Voldemort - he hasn't told you all about being defeated by a baby?"

"He never was!" the man crowed, offended at the very suggestion.

"And what did you do for the decade and a half that Voldemort never showed himself?"

"Oh... when I was in jail?"

Harry stood there, scowling and frustrated. Of all the Death Eaters in the room to have picked first... well, second, actually... he had to choose an idiot with a fetish for remaining uninformed. "All right. Let me explain. I am Harry Potter. I have defeated all of you, single handedly. You wouldn't even recognize what's left of Voldemort, or Bellatrix LeStrange, or Peter Pettigrew. But if you knew Rudolfos LeStrange..."

"Oh, yeah. I know him."

"Good. There's his head, lying on the floor over there. And nearby is the body of the first Death Eater to have angered me."

The thin man looked past Harry, satisfied himself as to the presence of a dead body and Rudolfos' head and pointed toward the headless Death Eater on the floor. "He's the first that angered you. Where are the ones that didn't anger you?"

"So far... you."

The thin man silently mouthed, "Oh." He stood there uncertainly.

"So." Harry began once again. "I am Harry Potter. I have defeated you all. I am going to give you a choice. If you want to save us both a lot of trouble, you'll take the first option, which is: I kill you. It's quick, it's clean, you don't hang around to get tortured for years, there's no prison, no public humiliation, no confronting your victims. You say the word, I kill you. Simple as that."

The Death Eater nodded, wearing a thoughtful expression, like any smart comparison shopper. "And the second choice?"

"You will swear to serve me. It won't be easy. Belonging to the Death Eaters will seem like a pleasant holiday compared to my service. And your oath of fealty will not be subject to stupid tests. The magic will be very powerful. If you fail me in any way - if you betray me, if you lie to me, if you shirk your assignments, if you give less than one hundred percent of your effort, if you attempt to gain personal advantage from your service, or if you steal from me or from anyone I assign you to assist - you will die horribly, in terrible agony. There will not be enough of you left to bury. And it will not be quick. Do you understand?"

The thin man smiled and nodded enthusiastically. "Yes!"

"And your choice?"

"Serve you, sir."

Harry sighed. He had refined this set of oaths over and over during the past month. Snape and Remus had done their best to find flaws in the wording, or contradictions between promises, or interpretations that would allow for loopholes. The resultant magical contract was as airtight as those three people could make it, Harry's binding spell was extremely complex, and - so far as the three authors could tell - Harry's magic was extremely resistant to being dispelled or even diluted in strength. "Repeat after me. I swear..."

A few minutes later, the oath was complete. The now former Death Eater, first member of Harry Potter's Army, was given the last phrase to speak, the one which would make the oath final. He smiled ingratiatingly at his new master and pronounced, "I do so solemnly swearrrrraaauuugh!" He fell to the ground, clutching his stomach. His skin hissed as it dissolved from him in dripping green goo. He glared hatefully at Harry. "Damn you anyway!" He grated through teeth clenched in pain. "I'd have killed you the minute your back was turned!" He coughed blood, writhing on the ground. Though it only took the Death Eater somewhat less than three minutes to die, to Harry, watching the effect of his own magic, the working of the curse seemed to take forever. By the time the Death Eater finally died, there really wasn't enough of him left to bury.

Harry stared at the puddle of ichor and incomplete bones. "Be glad it happened now," he told the departed Death Eater. "The penalty for betrayal gets worse the longer you serve me."

Harry knew he could not take the time to rest. He was determined to get this task at least partially done before Snape and Remus had a chance to return. He chose another bound body at random and began again.

Several hours later, there was a pounding on the door. Voices carried through faintly. "Harry! What are you doing? Why is this door locked? Let us in!" Harry made an expansive gesture in that direction, and the door swung wide. Remus and Snape entered the room and immediately trained their wands on the people sitting behind Harry.

Harry waved at both his most important allies, indicating that they should lower their wands. He walked toward them, gesturing proudly at the other group. "Gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to my newest instrument for bettering the world in which we live. I present you, Harry Potter's Army!

Neither Snape nor Lupin was impressed in the least. They both scowled worriedly at the gathered group of Death Eaters. If they hadn't known Harry was going to do this exact thing, both Remus and Snape would have killed the entire assemblage of Harry Potter's Army.

"Oh, stop worrying," Harry scolded. He indicated a puddle of green goo on the floor. "One person thought he saw an opportunity to do me some harm. That's all that's left of him. I didn't have to do a thing. It was all taken care of by the oath.

"And those people?" Remus pointed to a pile of bodies that had been shoved toward a corner.

"They chose death," Harry shrugged. "I can't force someone to be loyal, and it's a lot less cruel to kill them outright than to let them go through all that coughing up blood and dissolving they would have to suffer otherwise."

"Are you nearly finished here?" Snape wanted to know.

"Nope. More than two hundred left. No chance to finish with them before tomorrow. Speaking of which..."

"The sun came up over two hours ago," Remus said gently. "You need some rest."

"Look who's talking," Harry laughed, but he knew his own eyelids felt as heavy as Remus' looked. "I'll sleep in my Throne Room tonight. Snape, Remus, you're with me. You guys! Army! You bunk down in the next room. This one will be locked! Let's go." Harry had seen Snape's sharp look, and as they walked through the intervening chambers to reach the Throne Room, Harry softly told Severus, "I won it, so it's mine. I lead them, and they will be looking for some continuity from their previous servitude. Sitting on the throne they're already used to is an easy way to provide that continuity."

"While you should be thinking of all the ways in which you could sever such continuity," Snape countered. "Sleep. I understand you have been to the Minister's office during our absence. There will be a lot more work for you to accomplish in that area when you awaken."

"Just make sure I have time to swear in the rest of my new army," Harry yawned. "I'm afraid that if I leave 'em in their wrappings too long, they'll spoil."


	20. Chapter 20

Harry lay on the hard stone of the Throne Room, too close to sleep to bother transfiguring any part of the rock into a softer bed. Remus sat next to the boy. A deep concern weighed on the werewolf's features. "Harry...?" Remus said softly, trying to gently draw the boy's mind away from approaching sleep, rather than harshly shocking him back to wakefulness. "I know you want to appear tough in the wake of your victory..."

"Not appear," Harry mumbled through a yawn. "Gotta be tough. Too much too dangerous, y'know?"

"I know you still face a lot of challenges, Harry," Remus said kindly, "but after tonight's victory, all of your challenges are really opportunities to be even more successful. Your most deadly peril has been overcome." Harry scowled, silently urging the werewolf to get to the point. Remus nodded in understanding, met the boy's eyes directly and said, "I don't want you to forget who you are due to the pressure of all of this."

Harry sat up, blinking hard to clear his eyes. "You 'n' Snape both," he whined. "S'like you think we're in an old horror story: 'Don't sleep in the Throne Room, Harry!' What? D'you think old Wassis'Name's gonna come and possess me?"

"Worse," Remus said, and the weight of his worry shocked Harry back to almost full wakefulness. "I'm afraid that - like a lot of young people who suddenly develop tremendous strength - you will find it easier to be a bully than to seek cooperation. You'll realize how easy it will be to force others to obey you rather than try to convince them to..."

With an expression of disbelieving, hurt outrage, Harry bawled out a protest that cut off Remus' calm warning with sheer, shrill volume. "I don't know if you've been paying attention, but the situation we're in is going to take a lot more forcing of a lot more people before we're done with it. What's left in the next room is only the beginning! Do you think Fudge has... has just... given up? Do you think he's going to stand next to me and smile for the news photographers and just... quit, or something? I don't. And do you think Albus Dumbledore is going to give himself a break? Do you think he'll go off and do magic research just because Voldemort is gone? I don't think so. I think he's going to convince himself that I'm his next big enemy. And it won't be because I'm mean. It won't be because of anything I did wrong. It'll be because I have power. I can use magic without my wand. I can make up spells without a lot of research. The point, Remus, is that Albus Dumbledore will think I'm the next 'most dangerous wizard in the world' for no other reason than my magic. Because my magic is as incomprehensible to most wizards as wizards' magic is to most muggles. Dumbledore expected me to die, Remus. He had Neville waiting in his office to come fight when Voldemort defeated me. And I think that he was ready to take me out himself when Voldemort mucked up the opportunity."

In as soothing a tone as he could manage, Remus said, "He had Neville - In Case - you lost, which would have meant that the prophesy had pointed to Longbottom all along. And he went with you to the Minister's office. He didn't try to kill you there, did he?"

"In front of a dozen government officials who would be not only willing, but eager to act as witnesses against him in a murder case? What do you think? And when he came here, I used a spell to keep myself safe." Remus was about to make another point, but Harry wouldn't let him get a word in. "Did you hear me? Albus Dumbledore came here, first. Here, to this complex! How wrong is that, Remus? If he knew where this place was, why didn't he attack it himself? Why didn't he get the Order of the Phoenix to help him? Why... this pisses me off, Remus... why did he wait until I had every chance to get killed before he showed up?"

"Harry," Remus lectured sternly. "The prophesy gave him little choice. He wasn't the one who was going to defeat Voldemort, it was either you or Neville."

"He could have given me a hand!" Harry wailed. "If I was supposed to kill the great Dark Lord, don't you think it might have been nice to have the world's most powerful wizard - the only man Voldemort was ever afraid of - backing me up? Even if I had to deliver the death-blow, wouldn't it make some sense to have somebody with centuries more experience than me do some initial damage? Don't you think I would have had a better chance if I hadn't been alone?"

"No, actually, I don't," Remus countered quietly. "Your power is so highly developed..."

"HE DIDN'T KNOW THAT!" Harry bellowed, nearly in tears. "He hasn't seen what I've learned in the past weeks. He didn't know about any of my original spells. He knew where I was, and he knew what had happened the minute I had gotten the best of Voldemort. He left me in the fight, all alone, to take the worst that Voldemort could dish out. He wanted me dead... or so close to it that he could finish the job."

"What I think," Remus continued, apparently unperturbed by Harry's outburst, "is that Professor Dumbledore was able to extrapolate a lot more than any of the rest of us from what little we all knew before you left Hogwarts. I think he knew what you were capable of from the moment those four ridiculous broom riders attacked you out behind the Herbology greenhouses. What you have to remember, Harry, is that Albus Dumbledore has become very manipulative, and unfortunately quite dependent on being in control of everything at all times. And, he has become quite insistent about being regarded as the world's foremost authority on everything magical. But despite his several flaws, I truly believe that Albus Dumbledore is the single most perceptive user of magic in the entire world. And I include you in that assessment. You have great power, and a tremendous natural ability that may lead to any number of advances to benefit all of wizardkind. But Albus has made himself great through learning, through research and through a relentless striving for understanding. If the man would only commit himself to full-time study, even at his advanced age, he could develop such wonders as I cannot imagine."

"I told him," Harry groused. "He didn't act very interested."

Remus smiled gently. "Perhaps it will take a while for Professor Dumbledore to realize that his long war against Voldemort is finally over. He may be more reasonable once the fact of his old enemy's absence has had a chance to sink in."

"Right," Harry snorted sourly. He lay back down, trying to ignore the unyielding stone beneath him. "Sleep now. Got to start early tomorrow. Got a lot to..." Harry's voice trailed off, and he was asleep.

Remus watched the boy for several minutes before trying to find sleep himself. There was a lot to worry about, much of it centered around Harry's plan to use the Death Eaters as his own private army rather than turning them over to the aurors to be imprisoned for their crimes. Lupin worried about Harry's callous attitude toward his captives, especially the way he had joked about the ones still bound by his spell. As psychologically damaging as it may have been, Remus would have preferred Harry to have simply killed them all, rather than trying to bind them to him with oaths. There was far too much to go wrong with such a plan, and too little to be gained from it. But Remus had a great deal of faith in this cub's ability. And he had a great deal of love for the boy himself. As Harry lay on the stone, asleep, he looked so vulnerable that Remus wished he had a blanket to spread over him, a pillow to put beneath his head. But Harry had chosen to lie on the hard stone, possibly to remind himself of how hard his life would be in the next few weeks. Remus lay quietly and tried to relax enough to allow himself to fall asleep.

-

The silent listener tapped the Ear's receiver thoughtfully, stroking his beard with his other hand. When he was reasonably sure there would be no further conversation to be overheard that night, he stood, twisting and stretching to relieve muscles made sore by hunching over the receiver, tense and unmoving for so long. He descended his spiral staircase and made his way to the office of the Assistant Headmistress. The office was, as he had expected, brightly lit. He walked in and sat in one of the hard wooden chairs across the desk from the Headmistress.

"Well?" Minerva McGonagal prompted after he had sat there silently for a long moment.

Albus smiled at her with eyes twinkling. As he contemplated her serious expression, the mischeviousness in his face died away. "Minerva... do you think I have become... power mad?"

McGonagal pursed her lips and tilted her head slightly, studying him. "That's not quite the question you meant to ask, is it?" Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. McGonagal shook her head slowly, once. "You are probably trying to paraphrase something one of the Order said to you." Albus continued to look questioningly at her. Minerva took a deep breath as though preparing to deliver a long lecture, then sighed it all out again. She thought a moment, then said, "Albus... you've just gotten to be so pissy lately." Dumbledore's reaction showed that this was not what he had been expecting at all. Minerva looked at him as sternly as if he were a student brought to her for misbehaving. "Don't pretend innocence," she snapped. "You used to direct - whether you were directing the school or directing the Order - with big ideas, broad instructions and general directives. You gave your people - whether they were your teachers or those fighting against dark wizards - the freedom to improvise, to do as they saw fit. You trusted people more. But in the last few years... especially since Lily and James Potter were killed, now that I think of it... you've become more restrictive in your instructions, and less willing to allow those who answer to you to use their own heads. You've become less trusting of people, and more controlling. And in your position, that is a weakness. As a leader of a broad-based coalition of many different factions, you have to be able to provide the big ideas, the broad directions, the great overview. If you are trying to lead the Wizengamut, the education of our next generation, or a group as volatile and varied as the Order, you can't pretend to be able to manage each participant's every step. In the Wizengamut, you're leading the entire wizarding world, Albus. There is no way for you to dictate every member nation's policies and procedures. But you have tried. And you have been increasingly marginalized for your trouble. When you became the world's strongest opponent to Voldemort, you convinced - not only our own people - but several different species to become your allies. I shouldn't have to remind you that, for example, centaurs are not tolerant of humans in general. But they respected you because you stood opposed to a great evil that they despised as much as you did. Goblins, to cite another case, care little for the welfare of humans, except as it relates to wealth that goblin banks can manipulate. But Gringott's wanted to stand with you, because you stood against the threat of Voldemort's war - which would have had a negative impact on world economy, and which would have presented a threat to the very lives of the goblins themselves, Death Eaters being such racists as they are. I think you have forgotten that these different factions had to come to you... and that you had to convince them to do so... and that you had to continue to appeal to them to keep them on your side. Consequently, their attitudes toward you have changed. When was the last time you talked with a centaur?"

The question surprised Dumbledore. He began to answer, stopped, thought a bit, and finally replied, "I have made sure that the Forbidden Forest has remained for their..."

"Pfft." The derisive sound stopped Dumbledore's defense instantly. "You don't have to defend yourself to me. Though the manner in which you started to do so shows how much you've forgotten about centaur politics." Minerva skewered the Headmaster with a glare. "What did you say? Oh, yes: 'You've' made sure," McGonagal crowed in mockery. "Oh, certainly, 'You' have. In your own mind, that is doubtless true. To the centaurs, the Forbidden Forest is theirs, and it is the centaurs who have made sure that it has stayed that way. They still feel resentful over losing the great woods that once covered all of Britain. And they're more than a bit dissatisfied that they have to stay cooped up in the tiny patch of trees that we call 'Forbidden.' But as far as you claiming that you kept the Forest for them... there's not a half-horse living that wouldn't bat you to the ground for saying that. You used to know that. And I'm afraid that you've forgotten it."

"Why now?" Albus attempted to maintain a neutral expression, but to someone who had known him as long and as well as Minerva, his hurt was easily apparent. "Why, if I have been deteriorating in place for the past seventeen years, do you wait until now to mention anything?"

"One," Minerva responded primly, "We have finally reached a point at which we will be able to catch our breath for the first time in a long time. Why? Because one of two things has happened. Either we have destroyed the threat of the Death Eaters for good, or we will finally be able to fight them out in the open. Two," she added archly, "you're keeping me in suspense, and I won't stand for it any longer. Which is it, Albus? Are we going to war this morning or not?"

"Eh?" Dumbledore was caught completely unaware. He suddenly realized that he had not related any of the night's most important events to his best friend and closest ally. Face flushing with embarrassment, he announced, "The night has gone quite in our favor. Voldemort has been defeated, the Death Eaters have been bound magically and Harry Potter is slaughtering them one by one."

"What?" Minerva demanded, outraged. "You left a boy to kill an entire army one person at a time? Alone? What do you imagine that might do to him?"

"I don't think I had any choice," Albus admitted, shame coloring his expression. "The boy doesn't even bother to use a wand at all, any more. He froze me with a glance, stopped time all around us with a gesture, cast a number of spells that I have never before seen, and instructed me that I was to endorse his candidacy for Minister of Magic. Then he allowed me to leave. I truly do not believe I could have apparated away without his consent."

Minerva appraised the man shrewdly. "But all that's not what's bothering you."

Albus nodded, his smile returned and his eyes resumed twinkling. "The boy suggested something. I heard the same thing from another source. And you have presented supporting evidence for it tonight. Harry... and some others... think I should retire. Find a nice place to live and do magic research... in private."

As gently as she could, Minerva said, "The boy's right, Albus. You've done what you needed to do since the last war. But if, as you say, Voldemort is defeated, then everything is different. Hogwarts no longer has to be the world's great fortress against the Dark Lord. Some of the wards can come down, we can have a decent floo system installed, and staff will - finally - have freedom to apparate on our grounds. The Order can be put back to rest. There will be no reason to have a secret society of warriors ready to take to the field to battle Voldemort. There will be other bad men, and other bad women as well, but until one of them becomes a threat of the magnitude of old Tom Riddle, the standard ways of dealing with them shall suffice. Aurors and concerned citizens working together will keep our world safe enough. And when a crisis does arise, the traditions of the Order will always be there, for someone else to follow. The Wizengamut? You've left your stamp on that body. Let them remember your great ideas, and leave before they ask you to go. I'll need to stay here for a few more years, to oversee the transformation of Hogwarts into a school that serves peacetime as well as it served our long cold war. But then, I believe it might be quite rewarding to spend some time with Albus Dumbledore the magic scholar and the man, and let Albus Dumbledore the Leader of the Free World become the legend he should be."

Dumbledore's smile was still in place, and his eyes still twinkled, but his face looked unmistakably worried as he cautioned, "I haven't yet decided that I am going to retire, Minerva."

"Piffle," she responded dismissively. "You only came in here to break the news to me. You were so intent on explaining the how and why of it that you weren't even going to tell me we had beaten Voldemort!"

-

Harry awakened early on Halloween morning. He groaned as he struggled to stand. As sleepy as he had been last night, the stone floor had not made a relaxing bed. To Harry's surprise, both Snape and Remus were up and waiting for him.

"About time," Snape drawled. "Are you ready to finish last night's work?"

"Ready," Harry said tersely. He removed the magical lock from the revel room's antechamber in which he had confined all of the Death Eaters who had sworn allegiance to him last night. He squared his shoulders, put a determined look on his face, threw the door wide, walked in... and stopped in his tracks. "What the Hell is this?"

There were four half-dissolved bodies scattered around the room. Among those surviving, one was counting backward, near ten thousand when Harry first heard him, one was tunelessly reciting the lyrics to songs Harry had heard while still living with his aunt and uncle, and one was sitting on the ground, rocking back and forth, fingers pressed to his temples, chanting "Calm blue ocean, Calm blue ocean," over and over.

A pretty witch presented herself to Harry. She seemed unsure of what was expected, as she attempted to bow, curtsy and salute all at once. She was young, only about thirty years old, with long, straight dark brown hair and immense, brilliant blue eyes. She had a trim, athletic figure, and wore just enough that her appearance would be legal at a bathing beach. Harry could guess why the ex-Death Eaters had chosen her as their spokesperson. Remembering his lessons with Narcissa, Harry met the witch's eyes, then allowed his focus to center on the bridge of her nose. "Yes?" he prompted.

"We lost four last night," the witch reported. The first just screamed and... uh... dissolved. The second one we reached before he died, but we got no information from him. The next two... uh... a woman and a man, third and fourth, respectively... were able to say something. They told us... um... they told us that they had thought something bad about you. Not a plan to hurt you. Not like they were going to go try to find you as you rested, but... uh... just a bad thought. And that... that... that violated their oath. And they died... that way. We all panicked. We started thinking about anything else just so we wouldn't think of you at all, and... uh... nobody slept. We couldn't chance having a bad dream, and... and... you know... dying. Like that. So we all started doing arithmetic in our heads, or saying poems or... or..." She fell to her knees. "Please, Mister Potter! I'm loyal. I won't hurt you. I'll do what I'm told. But, Please! I don't want to boil into goo and cough up my lungs because I get annoyed... or... or... because I have a stray thought. I watched all those people die last night and I knew... I could be next... we could all be next. Help us, Mister Potter! Please!"

Harry looked over the group gathered in the room. Several were still mumbling to themselves, desperately trying to keep their minds blank. Harry watched for a while, then shouted, "Shut UP! Get over here. I need to speak with you all."

The entire group were on their feet, standing at attention, facing Harry in a second. They fell absolutely silent as soon as the shuffling of their feet had ceased.

"I have just been informed that four of your number died last night."

The ex-Death Eaters didn't know what to do. Stark terror showed on a number of faces. The new Master had not asked a question, but he was clearly waiting for a response. What would be an acceptable response to give? Shouting 'Yes, Sir!' would merely be confirming what he had already told them. Would that be insulting to him? Adding further information might be considered speaking out of turn. Would that result in a horrible death for whoever spoke?

Harry waited, watching the people before him fidget. Once it had become clear that no one had anything to add, he said, "Their deaths were consistent with the Curse of Oath-Breaking."

A general shudder passed through the crowd. No one wanted to say anything about the deaths, or about their feelings regarding the Oath-Breaking Curse.

Harry snarled at the group, "I have been asked to offer some assistance to all of you to help you survive any bad thoughts you might have while sworn to my service."

Looks of wild hope lit faces throughout the room.

"Let's all take a short quiz, shall we?"

The optimistic looks faded quickly.

"HOW MANY OF YOU HELPED THE MAN HUNG ON THAT RACK IN THE REVEL ROOM?"

The ex-Death Eaters looked at one another. Was that a trick question?

"Right. None of you. So: How many of you helped the other prisoners to escape?"

The people closest to Harry stood literally quivering, driven by a deep, visceral urge to be far away from this madman, yet knowing that should they try to flee, they would probably die as Oath-breakers.

"Not a one," Harry ranted on. "Then tell me this: How many of you helped every man, woman and child in the UK by standing up to Voldemort and fighting against the attacks that were to have started today?"

The entire roomful of people stared at the boy dumfounded. Had he forgotten who they were?

"A different subject, then. Did any of you actually think that serving me would be easy? Did you believe that service to me might be as simple as service to Voldemort, who demanded no more than an occasional 'Yes, Master,' while all the time letting you live as you wished, think as you wished, and fight amongst yourselves as you wished? You are all my prisoners. I could have killed the lot of you last night, as you're tempting me to do right now. If you agree to serve me, you will be doing so to make amends for crimes committed, and apologize for crimes you were about to commit. You are all guilty. There's no question about that. And if you are in service to me, you will help to cure some of the hurt you've caused - or you'll die coughing blood with your skin sizzling off of you!"

Harry's raving was too much for one wizard, a vigorous-looking man of about one hundred years. He stepped forward, his long hair and beard streaming behind him, and shouted, "Bollocks, youaaaaauuuuugh!" He fell to the ground.

Harry stood silently as the wizard died, then grimly announced, "I gave you a choice last night. Some of you were not listening. I will repeat that choice for you right now. Listen this time. Either you renounce Voldemort and all his teachings; renounce your own history as a Death Eater and all plans for taking over the wizarding world by force - AND SERVE ME... That's one choice. Or, die. That is your only other choice. If you SERVE ME, you will be working to undo everything that any Death Eater has been able to do since Tom Riddle changed his name to Lord Voldemort. You will be helping the families of your victims. You will be helping magic-using children of muggles to acclimate to our world..."

Another scream signalled the death of one more member of Harry Potter's Army. Harry waited for the hissing of the traitor's dissolving skin to subside.

"You will be helping remove the taint of the pure-blood cult from our wizarding government. You will be helping to teach everyone everywhere that Voldemort was a weak, sick, deluded, pathetic..."

Another scream, another death. But this time, a chain reaction threatened. As the screaming faded, someone shouted "That's Geoff! He's killed Geoff! Geoffreeeeeaaaahg!"

Another voice, "You bastaaaaaaaarrrrrrrr!"

And then, panic.

"We're all going to dieeeeeeeee!"

"Kill him while we caaaaaaaaaa!"

"Run! Apparate! Fleeeeeeeee!"

Harry threw his arms wide. "Stop!" he bellowed. He waited for the hissing from the last six deaths to fade away. Then he angrily addressed the frozen people before him. "You don't have to do that. You don't have to suffer and burn. You could simply say, 'Kill me,' and I could do that for you, quickly and painlessly. Or - if you think you can raise yourself above this disgusting cesspool of hatred you've all been living in - you can choose to serve me. But if you do, you will have to actually serve me. And I am absolutely one hundred eighty degrees opposite to Voldemort and all that he stood for. If you hated Voldemort, if you felt trapped as a Death Eater, if you were being forced to participate... maybe... just maybe... you have a chance to survive your service and earn yourself the right to a life. IF YOU BELIEVE VOLDEMORT'S CRAP, THOUGH... If you think you were right, if you yearn for a return of the Death Eaters... You will probably die the minute you fall asleep and have a pleasant dream of roasting me over an open fire. Please, save yourself the agony. Say the word. I'll kill you now. Ready?"

Harry stepped to within inches of the closest frozen wizard. "You," he said, pointing his index finger and releasing that man from the Stop spell.

The wizard met Harry's eyes evenly. Solemnly, he spoke. "Voldemort knew the truth. You are doomed. Kill me." Harry nodded, and the man crumpled to the ground.

Harry next released the witch who had first spoken to him that morning. She was near tears, and her eyes were wild with fear. "Please Mister Potter, understand that all of us have spent a long time being conditioned to respond in the way Voldemort wished us to. We were trained with torture, we were indoctrinated by our peers, we were..."

"Did you hate him?" Harry demanded.

The witch's reply was barely audible. "No."

"Did you fear him?"

"Yes."

"Did you wish to escape his service?"

"Sometimes."

Harry scowled at the witch, angry with her and annoyed at himself. He knew he had been taken in by the very thing he had promised himself he would not fall for, her undeniable attractiveness. Despite himself, as he looked at the woman, he felt that it would be a waste to kill her. But then, as he fumed over how easily he could be influenced by appearance, he reflected that it would be an even worse waste to kill all of his sworn Army. His plans would be set back, and some of his strategies would not work at all without these extra bodies laboring on his behalf. Still, the fact remained that the witch had taken the Oath, as had all of them in the room. If she betrayed him, she would die. Any one of them who betrayed him would die. And he wasn't about to remove the curses that enforced the power of the Oath from that attractive witch, or from anyone else who had sworn allegiance to him. To do so would be signing his own death warrant. Instead, he would have to insist on absolute loyalty from any of these people he allowed to live. And they would have to be aware that the powerful Curses of the Oath remained within them, enforcing their obedience. Knowing that all of the Stopped ex-Death Eaters could hear him, he lectured the witch. "If you were afraid of Voldemort, and wished to escape from him 'sometimes,' then this is your chance. Choose to serve me. Serve me well and you need have no fear of violating your Oath. But if you hate me, or wish me ill, or yearn for Voldemort's return, choose to die now, instantly and painlessly. Only you can tell me what you really feel. Only you can make your choice."

The witch bowed her head. "I will serve."

"Good. Then go stand against that wall. This may take a while."

By the time Harry had finished going through the process of interviewing each ex-Death Eater, his Army's effective force had been cut precipitously. Some of those he had released from Stop had attacked him. Some had attempted to apparate away. One particularly creative wizard had leapt toward Remus, driving powerful fists toward the werewolf's head, attempting to circumvent the Oath-Curse by attacking Potter indirectly. None of those individuals survived their attempts. Many others assured Harry that his cause was doomed. They all died instantly. After the last choice had been made, there were forty-eight members of Harry Potter's Army left alive, with only two hundred more Death Eaters to release from their bindings in the revel room. Harry removed the magical lock and the entry-proof seal from that room. "Come on, everyone. Let's get this job done."

The following unbinding was a disaster. Several Death Eaters had gone completely mad while in the Bindimus wrappings. They came out of their cocoons shrieking, attacking whatever target presented itself first. After being assaulted upon releasing several Death Eaters in a row, Harry thought that putting his prisoners' former companions close by might help. He reasoned that, when they saw familiar faces, the newly-released witches and wizards would pause before attacking. That hope was in vain. It was not only claustrophobia that had made the Death Eaters so crazy. Many of them recognized Harry and responded with pure hatred. Some, to judge by their ravings before they were cut down, had been assigned to an elite group whose purpose was to kill Harry Potter that very day. Seeing that their intended victim had become their captor enraged these people beyond reason. When the last of the bound Death Eaters had been released and sworn in to Harry's service, one hundred forty seven of the last batch lay dead. Harry surveyed the room, sickened by the carnage. He gathered the living at one end of the revel room and addressed them.

"I need a break and you need a break. None of us is going to be that lucky. There is far too much to do. Remus! Go to Saint Mungo's. See how many of last night's victims can be at the Ministry in about an hour. Professor Snape! Go to the Daily Prophet. Tell them that I will be presenting the defeated Death Eaters at a press conference outside of the Ministry in about an hour. You people! How many of you were personally involved with torturing victims last night. Be honest! I need to know which of you will be identifiable to anyone who comes to see us after getting out of the hospital. How many of you were in on the torture?

About half of the group held up their hands. Harry groaned. He hadn't really expected better results than this, but he had hoped. "All right, just you people. How many of you wore your masks the entire time you were tormenting your captives?"

There were two. "Put your hands down. You're in the safe group. We'll take a chance, and bet you won't be recognized. The rest of you! Who among you tortured only muggles? Be damn sure you're right before you answer! I don't want someone pointing you out at my press conference, understand? Now: How many only tortured muggles?"

A dozen were certain enough to make the claim. "All right. Those of you that are safe to appear in public - here's the story: You were helping me to defeat Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Got that? You were on my side all along. This is important: I recruited you. I organized you. I gave you your orders. I coordinated the attack. Understand? You were on my side, but it was my plan all along, and you were following me. Right?"

Harry looked over the group, and what he saw did not inspire much confidence. Like an elementary school teacher, he put the question to the entire bunch, voice lilting in a sing-song pattern. "How did you happen to be attacking the Death Eaters?"

The group was not particularly coordinated. Each of their answers was different, but they all boiled down to some variation of "Harry Potter recruited us and led the attack." Harry sighed, nodded and said, "That's good. Please, don't forget that. Answer as few questions as possible, but please - if a reporter asks you what happened, you answer just like that. I recruited you, and led the attack. Don't get clever! If they want to know how we knew where to go or when to strike, just say, 'Harry knew.' That's the answer to everything for today."

An old witch with pure white hair croaked out a one-word question. "Why?"

Most of the group drew away from her in horror, waiting for her to suffer the ravages of the Curse. Harry did not want his troops immobilized with fear. He wanted them deathly afraid of betraying him. He immediately praised her. "Good question! Good thinking! We need that. The reason is this: You are all going to be working for me. I need people who can work in public, who don't have to hide their faces. I need people who can be seen as allies of the hero of the day, and I need people everywhere to think that I am that hero. I want to show the skeptics that I can organize, that I can lead. I want to make it look as though I were much better prepared than is actually the case. You people are going to help me do all of that. By saying that I recruited you, you show that I was planning ahead. By saying that you followed my direction, you show that I can organize and lead. This is important, people. We are going to do some very important things within the next week or so, and you are all going to be a part of it. If you all do your parts properly, I will be Minister of Magic after the election to be held four days from now. How's that for taking over the country? Your old group wanted to fight and destroy and ruin whatever authority existed. We're going to take it over and use it for ourselves!"

Harry had doubted whether it would have been possible to get any real response from this bunch out of such an obvious, quiddich-coach style pep talk. But to his astonishment, Harry Potter's Army cheered. Harry wondered whether these people could have been recruited by anyone who had offered them the least amount of encouragement. He wondered if Voldemort might have been left without followers at all if anyone else had made any overtures to those who ended up as the Dark Lord's followers. Then he looked at the pile of dead bodies and remembered how many had chosen death rather than joining with the boy who had killed their Master. Harry decided that Voldemort would have had his followers, even if he had been denied the minority who were gathered here, still living.

"On my way," Snape reported disgustedly. With a loud report, the potions professor was gone. Harry could tell that the spectacle of Harry Potter's Army did not sit well with Severus at all.

"I'd better go, too," Remus said, looking sadly at the gathered Army. Remus disapproved as well, and Harry began to wonder whether he would ever enjoy the full support of his greatest allies again. With a bang, Remus was gone and Harry considered his troops.

"What do you people have to wear?" After the excesses of last night's revel, the group didn't have an unscarred robe amongst them. Some were nude, some wore strips of cloth that may have once been undergarments, and the few scraps that were recognizable as the remnants of robes were shredded to the point that most looked more like a fringed collar than a robe. "Right, then. Line up!" Harry announced, and one by one, he transfigured whatever bits of cloth he had available into presentable robes. Once the group was clothed, he told them, "Those of you that I called the Safe Group - get over by that pile of bodies. How many of you know where the Ministry office is?" Most of them did. "How many can apparate there on your own?" Most claimed they could. "When I signal you, apparate together so we arrive as a group. You people who are in danger of being identified - you stay here. Your job will be to clean these two rooms - the revel room and the antechamber beyond."

"We have no wands," protested one wizard.

"No, you don't," Harry agreed. "But Wormtail had some standard cleaning implements here. You will find them, and you will put them to work."

"While we're working... if we find our wands...?" another wizard called from the back of the group.

"Good question!" Harry called back. "Good thinking! That's the way to keep yourself and your friends alive. Don't claim your wands. Don't try to use them. Put them in a pile, so that those who earn wand privileges may be able to get them at the proper time. No spells. Just scrubbing. Right! Everyone who doesn't know how to apparate to the Ministry, stand by the bodies. Everyone else, apparate on my signal."

"It's not been an hour since you sent for the press," protested a witch.

"And that means we'll be able to set the scene to our liking rather than being surprised by the paparazzi. Besides, I think you'll find the news services will respond quite readily to a potential story such as this one. So we go now, and greet them as they arrive. Ready? Steady. Go!" Harry rolled a glistening sphere around in his hand, squeezed hard, and he, along with the bodies of the executed Death Eaters, the remnants of those who had died from the Oath Curse, and those who had needed help apparating to the Ministry all disappeared. With an uncoordinated series of bangs, the others who were going disappeared.

"Flobberworm vomit!" Exclaimed one of the wizards who had been left behind.

"What, there on the floor?" the white-haired old witch asked with exaggerated sweetness.

"No, not... I hate cleaning!" the same wizard groused. The group looked at one another in surprise. They had complained, but had not been Cursed for it. Perhaps there would be hope for them after all.

-

Harry and his crew appeared in front of the Ministry building and immediately drew attention. The sound of Harry's apparation with all that he carried in tow was tremendous. Some people in the Ministry thought that the building was being attacked with explosive shells. The rapid succession of explosive sounds which followed as the other members of Harry's Army apparated onto the scene only reinforced that impression. A team of aurors was at the Ministry entrance in seconds, and select members of that squad went out to investigate the disturbance immediately thereafter. What they found was astounding.

Standing proudly in the square immediately in front of the Ministry building was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, surrounded by a worshipful group of witches and wizards. In front of that assemblage was a pile of bodies, and a particularly grisly collection of partially dissolved bones and flesh that appeared to be human remains.

Before the aurors could interrogate the boy or his followers, or even investigate the appearance of so many corpses directly in front of the entrance to the Ministry, other wizards and witches began apparating onto the scene. Some of the aurors recognized some of the newcomers from last night's interviews at Saint Mungo's. These people claimed to have been kidnapped by Voldemort's followers and subjected to a bizarre ritual involving torture and various forms of abuse. Before the aurors could react to the former victims' presence, they began searching the piles of dead, looking for faces they recognized. When one of them identified someone, the finder would call out to his or her companions for confirmation.

The aurors split up and began to question those people with whom they had spoken the previous night. Harry found the leader of the group, and immediately took control of their meeting, introducing himself, asking the auror to send someone to fetch MInister Fudge, and warning the man that there was about to be a press conference on this very spot at any minute.

The lead auror was not at all impressed. "Listen to me, Sunny Jim," he lectured, putting on his toughest demeanor. "You don't come waltzing into the Ministry with this many dead people and expect an unconditional welcome."

"You do if the dead people are Voldemort's Death Eaters who were planning to attack the entire country this morning, have our nation crippled and reeling by this afternoon, and accomplish their violent takeover by this evening. If you doubt me, ask those people. They suffered kidnapping and all kinds of suffering at the hands of those who lie dead here. I saved them. I sent them to the hospital. Go on, ask them. They'll tell you. Last night was the warm up, today was to be the main event. We were all supposed to be dead by now. Instead, they are. I ask you, which would you prefer?"

The auror was, in keeping with his professional traditions, quite skeptical. "Where's Voldemort in all this, then?"

"There's not enough of him to present to you," Harry said apologetically. "I wish there had been. But these people saw the battle - if you could call it that. I beat him pretty conclusively. And more quickly than you might imagine. He's gone. And some of his worst followers wound up..." Harry pointed toward one of the Curse-destroyed corpses. "... Like that. Still, I think you professionals should have no problem identifying them all. So I brought them here for you to have a look at. Oh! Look! Here's the press." Harry smiled and waved, and a gaggle of reporters and their attendant photographers rushed toward him. The auror to whom Harry had been speaking decided to take the boy's advice and interview some of the supposed victims of last night's alleged debauchery. To his surprise, the story the victims told matched the boy's tale precisely. When next he checked on the boy, Harry was smiling for the cameras and boasting shamelessly for the news writers.

"... brought them here so everyone could see. So there would be no doubt," the boy was crowing. "Yes, I believe the Minister will be here shortly. Oh! Here's a man who knows the official side of this investigation." Harry motioned to the auror, and indicated the man to the media representatives. "Can you confirm that these are, in fact, the Death Eaters that held the nation in a grip of fear for so long?" Harry shouted, his mischievous grin showing that he was quite aware of the kind of unfair, leading, Daily-Prophet style question he had just asked.

The auror glared at the boy. "I can't, and you know that. You have only just shown up. We haven't even had the chance to examine these bodies. We've barely begun to interview their alleged victims."

There was something about the word 'alleged,' mused the auror, that made sensational journalists flee the scene and begin looking for a new angle. The reporters had abandoned him and were mobbing last night's victims before the auror could even take another breath.

"Yes, that one beat me," swore one victim. "He's the one who cut me repeatedly. If it hadn't been for the staff at Saint Mungo's," shouted another. "These people. This bunch right here! They're all perverts. And they used me as furniture!" testified a third. Soon the cascade of testimony overwhelmed all attempts to make sense of it, as reporters took a break and left the photographers to capture images of angry faces and fingers pointed accusingly.

At one of the rare moments when all of those talking took a breath at the same time, one reporter - who had positioned himself right behind Harry, waiting for this very opportunity - called out, "Is this the man that saved you?"

A chorus of assent swelled quickly and soon developed into a series of praises for Harry. Though he didn't know it yet, Harry's next great public appellation had just been coined. Which was just as well. 'The Boy Who Lived' may have been widely recognizable, but 'The Man Who Saved You' was a much more appropriate identifier for someone who was about to run for the highest public office in the government of wizarding Britain.

One of the reporters slapped his photographer on the shoulder and barked, "There's the Chief of Staff." Leaving his partner to capture images on his own, the reporter rushed to meet Mister Constantine, and standing directly in the man's path, said, "Hi, Deckard! Is Minister Fudge going to be making a statement?"

Constantine laughed out loud. "Well, hello, Frank," he responded jovially. "Nice to see you too. Just fine, and yours?" He quickly sidestepped the reporter and continued toward Harry.

"Come on, Deck," the reporter pleaded. "The more content of Fudge's statement I can get from you, the more I'll be able to concentrate on the nuances of the Minister's speech when he delivers it. You know what the man is going to say - you probably wrote it for him, so..."

Frank practically ran directly into Deckard as the Chief of Staff halted suddenly, turned to face the gathered journalists, and spoke. "If you have heard any of Minister Fudge's recent speeches... or, if you have read his political advertisements - you do read the ads in your own papers, don't you? Good. Well, you must be aware that the Minister holds Harry Potter in the highest regard. In fact, when Harry was out of public view for a while, apparently cooking up this impressive showing, as it seems, the Minister was so worried about him that he made Harry Potter the main topic... it seemed on several occasions to be the only topic... of his public addresses. The Minister has been very concerned for Harry, and has the greatest respect for him..."

Minister Fudge himself came bustling out of the Ministry building, rushing to arrive before his Chief had said too much. As soon as he was sure that he was within earshot of the gathered reporters, he began speaking, deliberately trying to drown out Deckard's stream of praise for Potter. "Which is only right and proper. And may I say that it is gratifying and a tremendous relief to see Mister Potter alive and well and among us once again. Not that we should take all of this too far, you understand. I don't think I have to remind you that we are holding elections in only four more days, and..."

The reporters turned away from the Minister as though the group of them together shared a like magnetic charge with him... and Harry was charged to attract them. "Are you running for office, Mister Potter?" asked dozens of voices at once.

"Yes, I am," Harry said, relieved that he could finally make the announcement. "I am running for Minister of Magic. And I believe that Minister Fudge has an endorsement he would like to make!"

-

Cornelius Fudge was far too experienced to be taken advantage of merely by being put on the spot. His reaction was schooled by long years of experience: he changed the subject. "This is quite a... mess... you have placed at the entrance to our government's offices, Harry. Which one is Voldemort?"

"Here is his chief lieutenant," Harry said, holding out Rudolfos' head in a pose so obviously modeled on the classical statues of Perseus displaying the head of Medusa that the photographers needed no time to decide how to properly photograph him. Fudge grimaced as he stared at Rudolfos' lifeless face. Not in sympathy, certainly, and no only because of the dead man's grotesque appearance. He was thinking about last night's meeting with Harry and Dumbledore, and he was worried.

Once the shutters had clicked, one of the reporters shouted out, "Chief Lieutenant? What about Malfoy?"

"There's something wrong with the State's case against him," Harry said, and looked over the reporters as though waiting for them to figure it out for themselves. When none of them offered any explanation, Harry provided it for them. "Lucius is a violent criminal. There is plenty of evidence to prove that he has been involved in many assaults as well as a number of premeditated murders. These are capital crimes, and deserve serious punishment. But as for the Malfoy fortune being the main support for the Death Eaters' activities, this assemblage shows two serious problems with that supposition: One, nearly every one of the Death Eaters who died in battle last night were either wealthy or well-off. None of them was poor. This was not a peasants' revolt. This was a revolution of, by and for the aristocracy. Any one of them could have met the modest funding needs of the Death Eaters' organization. And two, the accusations don't fit the personalities involved. For all his wealth, Lucius was infamously pecunious. If a contribution were demanded of him, backed up by the threat of death should he fail to contribute, I'll admit that he would have complied... but only after serious consideration." Harry let some of the tension in the atmosphere dissipate by allowing his audience to laugh at that. Then, immediately becoming serious once again, he continued, "And all of our best intelligence shows that Voldemort was so demanding of his followers that no rich man could have remained in his service without giving 'til it hurt. The allegation that it was the Malfoy fortune which funded Voldemort's operations..." Harry took a long breath and forced himself to remain calm as the crowd of listeners gasped and drew away from the pronunciation of the dreaded name. "... The allegation that all of that was accomplished by Malfoy money is ludicrous. It simply doesn't hold up under serious scrutiny."

Fudge insinuated himself into Harry's space. Condescendingly, he explained, for the reporters' benefit, "Now, lad, you're wandering into subjects with which you are completely unfamiliar. Your ignorance will betray you if you continue in this way."

"On the contrary, Cornelius," Harry countered, quite confident and clearly at ease. "I have had to become quite conversant with the Death Eaters' operations in order to have thwarted their major attacks - which were to have started this very morning. While it was you, Minister, who remained ignorant of the danger which threatened us all, and, consequently, did nothing about it." Harry smiled broadly at the photographers, sparing only a glance for the Minister, as if to say that the man was beneath his notice.

"I caution you, Mister Potter," Cornelius said, clearly stung by the boy's criticism. "There is a very complex legal case being decided even as we speak which deals with Lucius Malfoy's material support for the Death Eater cause. It would be quite inappropriate for you to pontificate on matters which have been thoroughly discussed in a court of law before that court has given us the benefit of their expertise."

"Speaking of anticipating the court," Harry added, unperturbed by the Minister's warning tone, "The proceeds from the liquidation of the Malfoy fortune were allocated to the various governmental Departments via budgetary directions issued by the Minister's office before the case even went to trial. How do you account for that, Minister? Did you simply decide that the accused was guilty enough in your own mind that stripping his family of their worldly goods was acceptable behavior?"

"Hah!" Fudge crowed triumphantly. "Budgetary directions are always speculative and conditional upon acquisition of funds. We're government, Son, not some deep-pocketed business! We have to work more closely to the bone, and manage our people's money with great care!"

"Ah," Harry said, in a broad mockery of realization. "That's why you threw the Malfoy family out of their home, threatened them with a felony charge should they remove any of their own possessions and sent teams of catalogers in to tote up the value of every item."

"What's all this about Malfoys?" Fudge blustered. "You come here claiming to have defeated... eh... You Know Who. You can't produce any evidence that you have even fought with the man, but you pile dead bodies here in the very doorway of the government offices, pose for the photographers with a grisly severed head and then rattle on about Malfoys! What are you playing at, Boy?"

"I'm fighting injustice," Harry announced to the crowd, providing a striking profile for the photographers to capture. "I did fight Voldemort... and the evidence stands all around you - these are people who were kidnapped and tortured by the very people who had planned to attack all of us today. They saw the fight - and they know I won it by the simple fact that they are alive to tell you their stories! These people are my evidence - as are these casualties of the battle. I beat the entire Death Eater army for two reasons. First of all, I knew what I was doing because I had properly prepared. And, more importantly, I was fighting for justice. And if I had to stand against an army of Death Eaters to fight for justice last night, I am compelled to stand against a single, fat, ignorant, unprepared, head-in-the-sand opportunist such as yourself."

Shutters clicked and Dictaquills flew as Harry stood toe to toe with Fudge. But the sound that dominated the wide open plaza in front of the Ministry offices was not scratching or clicking. It was a roar of cheering and applause that started loud and grew progressively louder until Fudge, unnerved, began to back away from the confrontation.

The moment Fudge took his first backward step, Harry turned back to the crowd and began building his own legend. "One thing that really helped me in last night's fight," he related with a broad smile, "was being able to use wandless magic."

"Prove it!" called out one of the reporters.

"All right," Harry agreed. "Is everyone ready to take a little ride?" He spread his arms wide and slowly lifted his hands. Every living person in the crowd rose a full meter from the pavement. There was some laughter, and a few shrieks and cries, but there was no evidence of any real fear. The whoops and screams sounded like what could be heard near a carnival midway as people enjoyed themselves with the amusements to be found in the Fun Zone. "Don't wiggle so much!" Harry shouted, laughing himself as people struggled to keep their balance. It was as though the entire crowd had been lifted on a tray centered on Harry. As people shifted their weight, the entire tray tilted slightly, which made more people lean to keep their balance, which made the tray tilt even more. "You're a squirmy bunch!" Harry hollered. "I'll have to let you down." He lowered his hands and the group settled gently back to Earth.

Amid the general mirth, one voice rang out with anger. "Parlor Tricks!" Spat Fudge. "Of all the empty, meaningless, cheap..."

Harry's Army remained silent in response to this outburst. The reporters listened carefully. But the crowd of those whom Harry had rescued the previous night rumbled with anger. "Shut up, Corny!" Shouted one man. When the Minister continued to glare angrily, someone else bellowed, "Fuck You!" As though the crowd had been waiting for the obscene shout to signal them, the whole group surged toward the Minister, growling with fury.

Harry amplified his voice to be heard above the roar. "Wait!" he commanded, and the crowd obeyed. "You don't have to risk yourselves to hurt this man," Harry lectured. The crowd began to quiet, waiting for a better suggestion, and sure that Harry would provide one. "Go to the polls four days from now, and vote him out of office. That's how we'll do this in a civilized way. Tell your stories to your friends and family. Urge them to read the newspaper accounts. And insist that they go out and vote. Harry Potter for Minister!"

The cheers were deafening. Fudge waited impatiently, not finished with this argument quite yet. "We will investigate the dead you have dumped on us, Mister Potter," he promised coldly. "And should your story prove as weak as it seems to me..." he waited for another round of booing to die down. "... we will have to consider bringing charges against you for multiple murder."

The howls of outrage were fierce. Fudge estimated the distance from himself to the Ministry door, hoping he would not have to run for his life. But instead of offering him violence, the crowd did something even more horrendous, so far as the Minister was concerned. A witch near the center of the crowd got the attention of as many of her companions as possible, and shouted out, "We're your witnesses, Harry!" Those around her followed her lead, tapping their neighbors shoulders to draw them into the group and shouting "We're your witnesses, Harry!" over and over again. Fudge fled, and Harry thanked everyone who had come, reminding them all to be sure to go to the polls and vote in four days.

-

Fudge sat shaking in his Chief of Staff's office. "Malfoy..." he kept muttering to himself. "How could I have gone wrong with Malfoy? I thought everyone would have hated Malfoy... By now, I mean, with the trial and all..."

Deckard Constantine watched this for a while, then asked, "Why didn't you just endorse the boy? You seemed convinced you were going to do so last night."

"Because he's a boy!" Fudge blustered. "He's eighteen years old? Well, that's as may be. He's still just a baby!"

"All the great leaders made their first indelible impressions on the world as babies," Deckard replied with a shrug. "Jesus, Buddha, Alexander the Great..."

"Who?" Fudge shot back.

"A muggle. Conquered the world before he was twenty. No one important, really. The point is, with wandless magic and a pile of dead Death Eaters..."

"And that's another thing!" Fudge fumed. "Littering our front door with corpses. That's an image that ought to repel voters! Boy Who Lived throws dead bodies at the office he thinks he can win. Disgusting. And if we can prove any one of those dead people was innocent... Oh, I think the boy would wish he had thought twice about taking on Cornelius Fudge when that case came to trial. We could make him look... I mean, we could prove that he's nothing more than a murderous thug, as dangerous as those he said he fought against. Deckard, let's write some copy."

"Oh, resign, Cornelius," Deckard advised with a heavy sigh. "I do. As of now. There's nothing more I can do for you. You've lost. Either find some way of getting in with the winning team or go home and work on your memoirs."

The ex-Chief of Staff began to clean out his desk.

-

Harry apparated himself and his Army back to the underground bunker, leaving the bodies of the slain Death Eaters for the government to deal with. He realized there was a certain risk inherent in leaving his defeated enemies behind: specifically, that Fudge or someone working under Fudge's influence would find one or more of the deceased to have been 'innocent.' But Harry was very confident that his presentation of the bodies had been so public that there would be little chance for even the Minister of Magic to find a way to insert a blameless corpse among the guilty, and Harry was supremely confident that he had killed only active followers of Voldemort. He decided that he had done the right thing, and tried to put the matter out of his mind.

When he arrived in the stone complex, Harry made sure to praise his cleaning crew. Not only did he consider that a good morale-building step, the group really had done a good job. He then began debriefing those who had gone with him to the press conference.

His questions for each of his people were simple.

– Did anyone speak with you?

Several had. The conversations had quickly been turned into political advertisements for Harry. That was good.

– Did any reporters or aurors speak with you?

Two reporters had spoken briefly with two different individuals. Each of Harry's people had answered exactly as they had been instructed, crediting Harry with the planning and organization of the entire operation which brought down Voldemort. That was good.

– Were any of you in photographs taken by news photographers?

The answers to that question were much less certain, and not at all as reassuring as the previous ones had been. With the number of photographs being taken, most of those who had gone with Harry felt reasonably sure that their images had been captured.

That brought up the hard question.

– Who else besides me knows that you were a Death Eater?

The answers to that were frankly depressing. If Harry believed that he had averted the British Wizarding Civil War by destroying its most infamous proponent, he was sorely disappointed. The members of Harry's Army all had families. Most were married. They had children, some had grandchildren, and a few had great-grandchildren. The entire group had parents who were still living, some had grandparents who still lived, and the great-grandparents of a few were still alive. The soldiers of Harry Potter's Army all had uncles, aunts, nephews, nieces, cousins and in-laws. And the majority of those relations were aware of their relatives' involvement with Voldemort. Even more surprising, many of the ex-Death Eaters told Harry that their neighbors, friends, and even co-workers knew about their affiliation with the group commonly referred to as the 'Opposition' to avoid public mention of the unpopular names 'Voldemort' or 'Death Eater.'

Harry dreaded asking his last question, but it was the key to formulating his strategy.

– Did those people approve of your activities?

Apparently so, according to every answer Harry received. Sworn to loyalty, honesty and service, with the threat of the Curse hanging over them, the soldiers of Harry's Army were unlikely to lie. Could they be deluded? Were they lying to themselves? Harry pressed for more complete answers. Everyone agreed that there was someone - a nosy neighbor, an indiscreet friend or a foolish cousin - who could not be trusted with the truth. Pressed further, all of those being debriefed admitted that, in actual practice, there was a wider range people who had to be kept ignorant: small children, the very elderly, the very stupid and the mentally unbalanced, for example. But to Harry, who had spent years in fear of the Death Eaters and their ruthless leader, the truly frightening shock in these matter-of-fact descriptions was what a broad support network Voldemort's followers had actually enjoyed.

Dumfounded by this revelation, Harry threw in an extra question spontaneously.

– What about the nationwide anti-Death Eater sentiment in the years since the last war, including public vilification of Voldemort and his followers, imprisonment of convicted Death Eaters and the constant search for Dark Wizards carried out by the aurors?

The most eloquent answer Harry received to that question was a shrug. Over and over again, he heard the same opinion. Some Death Eaters had gone to jail. So what? Most of them had broken out recently. Followers of Voldemort had been subjected to public vilification, but by whom? Mostly by pompous and ineffective public servants, and by the Daily Prophet: a rag, written to distract the masses with unimportant triviality. Ostensibly, there had been pressure from the aurors, but it hadn't bothered anyone very much. The official wizarding law enforcers were Ineffective as police, and hopeless as detectives. Harry's newly sworn servants each showed their contempt with examples from their own experiences, such as: 'Wear a mask and an auror will never be able to figure out your identity;' or, 'Strike and run and an auror will never be able to follow your tracks;' and even, 'Volunteer misleading information and an auror will accept your lies as fact, and thank you for your cooperation.'

The one deterrent to dark wizardry that each individual pronounced effective was the 'private war' between the Death Eaters the Order of the Phoenix. The conflict was perceived to be rather like a gang fight over turf, the 'turf' in this case being the entire United Kingdom, and ultimately the world. Albus Dumbledore had won the Death Eaters' respect by being their toughest opponent by far, and his group of powerful, dedicated fighters had been seen as the single greatest threat to Voldemort's plans.

Harry sat thinking about all of that as many minutes passed. The people in his service would appear in photographs, which would probably be published in newspapers. People who knew those people would recognize them. His followers' former political affiliation would not be a secret. Would that pose a threat? Would there be a public outcry? Would someone, simply trying to be clever, or looking for a reward from some publication like the Daily Prophet, expose the identities and former affiliation of those people who had supposedly helped Harry Potter? He thought about the problem until he was quite certain that he would not find a solution without help. He looked around in annoyance. Neither Remus nor Snape had returned. Neither had been at the press conference, for that matter. What were they thinking? Had they run into trouble? Had they been arrested? Were Harry's own enemies closing in, capturing his closest allies?

Harry shook his head to help banish his increasingly pointless speculations. He stood to address the crowd and felt a rush of lightheadedness. He was tired, he was hungry, he was becoming disoriented, his thoughts were going nowhere, and they were becoming more paranoid by the second. He would have to finish what he had to do here and go on to the next thing, which was... He couldn't think of what the next thing was. He realized that he was trembling all over. He needed rest, and he needed to be out of this depressing stone dungeon. How Voldemort could have chosen to lock himself within it was beyond Harry's comprehension. Harry realized that his mind was wandering again, and forced himself to return to the business at hand.

"Everyone! You need to go back home and resume as normal a routine as possible. I will summon you if necessary, but until I do, remember that you are sworn to my service, and my first major instruction to all of you is to go home and resume your routines."

"What if there's an emergency?" Shouted a wizard from the middle of the crowd. "How do we get in touch with you?"

"If all goes well, you'll be able to reach me at the Minister's office!" Harry crowed, holding his hands above his head like a winning boxer.

"What about the election?" a witch in the front row wanted to know.

Harry stared back blankly, struggling to recall what it was that was so important about that question. When the realization struck, it was nearly enough to knock him off his feet. He had forgotten to send his people on their most important task!

"The election is very important," he announced, then searched for his vanished train of thought. "So important, that we need to get every vote we possibly can," he improvised. That sounded good. It seemed to be in the right vein. But at that moment he couldn't tell if he were making sense or babbling incoherently. "I need all of you to encourage everyone that you possibly can encourage to go and vote and to vote for me," he continued. He could hear how disjointed his own statements were, but he couldn't force his thoughts into any more coherent order. "So, I need you to canvas your neighborhoods, tell your neighbors, floo your families, and spread the word at work. Vote for Harry Potter. If someone needs help getting to the polls, offer to take them. If someone else is interested in campaigning for me, encourage them. Knock on doors, tell everyone you can. Vote for Harry Potter."

"Do we have any literature?" some one called out.

"No!" Harry waved the suggestion away. "No time for that. Tell everyone in your own words. Tell them you're voting for me, and that they should, too!"

"What's your platform?" asked someone, apparently quite serious about getting the information.

"I'm better than Fudge," Harry listed off the top of his head. He was feeling weak, dizzy, and increasingly distracted. It was hard to remember the concepts that had been so clear when he had faced Fudge at the Ministry just a short time ago. "I defeated Voldemort," he added, wishing that this ordeal could somehow be over. "I'm against unjustifiable seizure of property prior to an accused person's conviction," he concluded, hoping that he sounded confident, knowing that he felt disoriented and half asleep. Even in his weakened state, he knew that the short list he had given his election workers would not be enough. "Tell them all I'm a supporter of education, friend of the small businessman and the most awesomely advanced wizard you have ever seen. That should convince them. And if it doesn't, find something else that will. We have to win in four days. Right, then. You lot need to go home!"

"We haven't our wands," protested a young wizard, close enough to the front of the crowd that Harry could see the panic in his eyes as he contemplated returning to his regular life without the ability to cast spells.

"No, you don't," Harry pronounced stentoriously. "You will have to earn the return of your wands. Until you do, you will have to make excuses for not being able to perform magic as best as you are able. You might say that you have lost your wand, or that your wand has been stolen, or that your wand was destroyed in a house fire - whatever you need to say. The point is, you'll get no wands until you have earned the privilege. Now, Home with you all. Go!"

With an arrhythmic series of bangs like the popping of corn, the members of Harry's Army disappeared. Harry collapsed to the floor, not bothering to search for a piece of furniture or even some cloth the soften his resting place on the stone. He took long, deep breaths, yet still felt as though he were suffocating. His trembling was worse. He closed his eyes so that he wouldn't see the room spinning - then opened them again quickly as he found the sensation of vertigo to be much worse with his eyes closed. He needed to go, to get away from there, to find someplace to rest and recover. But when he thought of apparating, the effort seemed too great. So he lay there, sick, shaking and dizzy, wishing that either Remus or Snape would show up to help him. He lay there an indeterminable time, feeling sorry for himself, unable to close his eyes to sleep, unable to find a comfortable place on the rock to rest. He finally rallied enough strength to visualize the house in Godric's Hollow, and concentrate on it well enough to fix it as a target destination. With what felt like his last reserve of energy, he apparated.

-

"It is about time you recalled the location of your home, Mister Potter." The tone was disdainful, but to Harry, the familiarity entirely made up for all of its superciliousness.

"Professor," Harry groaned, laboring to focus on the kitchen into which he had appeared. "I'm sick. I think I used too much magic."

"Just like a child. Show him a treat and he gorges on it until his body rebels."

"Give him the lesson when he's aware enough to absorb it," chided another familiar voice. Remus. Harry nearly cried with relief. The reassuring sound continued. "Let's see if there's anything seriously wrong. We can bawl him out if he's sufficiently strong to stand up to a tongue lashing."

"Whatever his condition, there are some things that must be dealt with," Snape drawled, helping Harry to a sitting position on the floor. "Such as this."

A huge form, hardly more than a bright blur, flew directly at Harry's face. Harry grunted incoherently in his surprise: "Huh?" But a second later, he was laughing. "Hedwig!" He cried gleefully. The bird stared at him in concern for a moment, then apparently decided that he wasn't in serious trouble after all. She hooted dismissively, flapped once, and took a perch on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

Harry tried to stand in order to care for his owl. "We need to get her some food and water and..."

Snape pushed the boy back down to the floor. Remus reassured him, "We have taken care of all that some time ago. You have been gone quite a while, Harry. It does concern me that you feel ill, but... you must admit... last night and today saw quite an extreme - and sustained - level of exertion."

As annoying as it had been to be pushed back down, now that he was once again on the floor, Harry was quite glad he had not attempted to stand. He felt queasy and very tired. Had he made it to his feet, he would likely have fallen. "Yeah," he murmured. "I was gone a long..." He scowled and managed to focus both eyes well enough to meet Remus' concerned gaze. "I was gone? What about you? Both of you. Where were you? I was at the Ministry, and then back to the stone room and... what happened to you?"

"We've been busy," Snape sniffed. "You should know that the magical protection that has kept this house safe for so long seems to be wearing off. Hedwig found her way here. And there has been traffic of the muggle variety on the roadway which runs past your front yard. One rather large motorcar in particular carried a passenger who quite obviously pointed and gestured toward this house, apparently discussing the merits of the property with the other occupants of the vehicle. Once your owl arrived, I ventured an experiment. I ordered delivery of the Daily Prophet to this house, starting tomorrow. The subscription is in the name of a long-dead great-uncle of mine, but the real test will be whether the paper is actually delivered in the morning. If it is, we must presume the Fidelius Charm has lost its potency. We will have to decide whether this means that we must take further steps to provide for your personal security. For example, I would guess that Albus Dumbledore knows where you are even now."

"I did go to the Ministry, Harry. But you had already left," Remus said with a grin. "I must say you made quite an impression on everyone there. But I had little time to gawk at the circus surrounding the offering you left behind. I obtained the papers that will allow you to officially file for your candidacy for Minister of Magic."

"Ummm... right," Harry said, trying to imagine the scene as Remus must have seen it. "Thank you. Both of you. Uh... why is it so dark?"

"Halloween day is nearly over," Snape reported sharply. "If today's traffic is any indication, you'll have Trick-or-Treaters visiting your door this evening," he added, acid in his voice.

"You know about trick-or treating?" Harry asked, astonished.

"I know about a lot of muggle customs. Especially those which are essentially mockeries of our own culture. Dressing up as 'witches' and 'wizards,' indeed. More disgusting ignorance."

Snape's tone was harsh, but his hands were gentle as he helped Harry to bed. Remus kept Harry talking so that the boy would not fall asleep before both men were convinced that he was not seriously ill. Snape performed some simple physical checks of Harry's pulse rate, temperature and eye dilation, then cast some spells to ascertain that Harry was, indeed, well. Once the spells were completed, Snape nodded to Remus, who bid Harry good night. The boy was asleep within seconds.

Remus sat on the edge of the bed, watching him sleep. "What in Hell were you thinking, lad?" he murmured. "No wonder you're feeling sick. Out of your captured Death Eaters, you may have needed to keep an informant who could have revealed the Opposition's secret plans, or a helper or two for clearing away the last of Voldemort's influence. A small team to dismantle the Throne Room complex might have been useful, or a larger bunch to trace down those people who may have been 'associates' or 'aspirants' and weren't caught on Revel Night because they were not yet full-fledged Death Eaters. That was what the Oaths were for. That is what Severus and I both had in mind as we helped you craft them. That is all I ever thought you would attempt. I really expected you to show up at the Ministry with most of Voldemort's followers bound - and still alive. But I should have guessed that Harry Potter would not have been satisfied with such a simple denouement. Placing one hundred or more of the bastards under Oath must have been a major project. And then dragging all those corpses to the Ministry... that would have made me feel sick. I only hope your 'army' of ex-Death Eaters doesn't turn out to be a mistake."

-

Halloween was, as always, a busy day for the Weasley twins' business, and the proprietors put in a long and profitable day. But first thing the next morning, Fred and George were at Hogwarts, knocking on Professor McGonagal's door.

As soon as they were admitted to the Assistant Headmistress' office, Fred announced, "We'd like an appointment to see the Headmaster, please."

"Again," McGonagal observed. "I see you're availing yourselves of your final chances. You won't be able to ask me that for much longer."

The twins' faces both fell. "Oh, no, professor," George pleaded. "You're not leaving as well?"

"Hardly," the witch stated firmly. "Quite the opposite. I'll be taking over administrative duties for Hogwarts at the end of this school year. So you'll have to ask some other Head of House for an appointment to see the Headmistress after that time."

The twins' faces lit up once again. "You..." Fred thought better of whatever he had been about to call the Professor, and instead finished rather lamely, "... really had us fooled."

"Well," McGonagal said primly. "It's not just the famous boys who can play a joke."

Fred and George laughed out loud at their own expense and congratulated Professor McGonagal repeatedly. When they offered to take her to the Three Broomsticks for a celebratory lunch, she put a stop to the joviality. "There is no possible way I can take even an hour in the middle of the day. I may be able to get a bite of something between classes to keep from passing out due to hunger, but that is the most I can manage with all I have to do every day. However, I do believe I can get you in to see Professor Dumbledore before I have to go to today's first class. I'll take you to his office."

She led the twins to the spiral staircase, and as the stairs were folding out from the marble column, creaking and groaning as always, she very quietly said, "Boys, when you ask for the return of your listening device, I would also ask the Headmaster for the spell which he used to locate the Ear to which your device was attuned. I believe that if you could keep track of the location of the Ear as well as the sounds it picked up, the whole product would be much more valuable once your patents have been issued." The stairs stopped their distracting grinding, and McGonagal climbed them more quickly than the twins could follow. As the Weasleys arrived at the top of the spiral flight, McGonagal assured them, "The Headmaster will see you now." She winked as she passed them by and was gone from sight before the twins could wish her a good day.

Albus Dumbledore stood before his desk, quite relaxed, holding a dish of sweets. "Minerva seems to believe I owe you for the use of your... ah... invention," he said, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "And I suppose I do."

The twins looked at each other in astonishment. This was going to be much easier than either had thought.

-

By the time Harry awoke, the sun was high in the sky and shining brightly. Since it was November first, that meant that it was already very late in the day. He stumbled blearily out to the kitchen, where Remus was seated, reading a newspaper. Something seemed incongruous about the scene, but it took a long moment for Harry to realize what it was. The newspaper! There shouldn't have been... then he recalled what Snape had told him last night... or yesterday afternoon... whenever. The Prophet must have been delivered. The Fidelius was fading, probably due to their own activities. The spell had been made to protect Harry's parents, after all. With new occupants in the house, the residual effects were probably being erased with every passing hour. Remus folded the newspaper and tossed it to the sleepy-eyed boy. "Hey, look at that, Harry," he teased. "You're famous. Who'd have guessed that?"

"Erm, yah, awm," Harry replied, perfectly aware of what he had meant to say, but as yet unable to get his mouth to cooperate with his brain. "Lesse whassisay."

The front page featured a page-wide photograph of the pile of Death Eater bodies in front of the Ministry, Harry standing in front, arms raised, levitating the crowd. In stark contrast to the grim mound behind Harry, the flying people around him were laughing and shrieking in enjoyment. The headline was huge and bold. "Boy Who Lived becomes Man Who Saved Us!"

Remus left the room, looking back to appreciate the scene of his cub reading the front-page story about himself. He nodded contentedly as he passed through the doorway, but was back seconds later as Harry cried out incoherently.

Before Harry's second scream was out of his mouth Remus and Snape were in the kitchen, wands drawn, eyes darting to every corner of the room to find the danger. But Harry's alarm had not been caused by an invader. The horror was staring at him from the bottom of the third page of the Daily Prophet. A small article with a modest headline, illustrated by an old photograph, outlined a strange story about an event of the previous night. "Man Dissolves at Home," the headline read. "Victim had been under investigation for alleged ties to Death Eaters," the sub-head continued. Harry checked the 'file photo' of the victim, who had been, as he had feared, one of his Oath-sworn ex-Death Eaters. He then flipped back to the front page. There, tiny but unmistakable in the background, was the same man. "Oh, no," Harry said, shaking his head repeatedly and gradually straightening his arms so that the newspaper was farther and farther from his face. "Oh, God. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no."

"You will most likely be safe," Severus said. "It will be difficult to make a positive connection between that man and you, and should anyone begin to do so..."

"Gotta go," Harry said, throwing the paper aside.

"What do you plan to..." Remus began, but was cut off by the explosive sound of apparation. There was no longer anyone at the kitchen table. "Should we follow him?" Remus asked Snape.

"We would do more harm than good. Should we appear and attempt to advise him, his authority would come into question. Those people under Oath must be allowed to have no question cross their minds that Harry is their ultimate authority. Otherwise, many more of them will wind up..." Severus scowled, dissatisfied with the only descriptive term he could think of. "...Dissolved," he concluded sourly.

-

Harry appeared in the Revel Room at exactly the spot from which he had last left it. He was glad there were no witnesses to his arrival. He had apparated from his seat at the kitchen table, and he arrived in exactly the same position - and, with no chair to receive him, he promptly fell backward, landing hard on his arse and rolling hard until his shoulders hit the stone, saving his head from cracking against the floor only by tucking his chin hard into his chest. He didn't pause to check himself for injuries, but rolled and pushed himself to his feet and rushed to where he had left his trophies. He grabbed the Wormtail-hammer and slapped his palm over the Dark Mark. He had no idea if his attempt at this spell would work. He had never tested it over a short distance as he had planned to do. But he thought that something had happened. He tossed the summoning device aside and waited.

Throughout England, the Dark Marks on ex-Death Eaters' arms ached. As most of them were busy campaigning, they finished their appeals and, as quickly as they reasonably could, apparated back to the stone room to meet with their new master.

Harry counted carefully, unwilling to speak until everyone had arrived. Once all one hundred surviving members of the Army had gathered, Harry stood and asked the group, "Who among you would choose to be free from my service?"

This was an odd request, and it took the group a while to figure out what the boy was talking about. Many among them turned and whispered questions to their neighbors. Most stared back blankly. After an embarrassed silence had fallen over the room, one witch stepped to the front of the group and addressed their new leader. She was plump, a robust middle age of about sixty years, with thick brown hair tied in a bun. She was not in robes, but rather a plain brown dress over sensible leather shoes. "Mister Potter," she said cheerfully, her voice warm despite the cold surroundings, "If you have brought us here to ask once again whether we wish you to kill us, I believe that we are all wasting our time. We could be out gaining votes for your campaign even now." She bowed and stepped back into the group.

"I do not ask whether you want to die," Harry announced ponderously. "I offer you the chance to escape from the Curse-death. The opportunity to be free from my Oath of Service. It will come at a price, however."

"One of us paid the price last night, Mister Potter," shouted a wizard from the center of the gathering. "No one else has the bollocks to say it, but I think we all saw the story in the newspaper, didn't we?"

"And that's why you're here!" Harry shouted back. "The lot of you are so used to double-dealing, betrayal, lies and secrecy that you're completely untrustworthy! Last night's death showed me that I have a choice of keeping you people sworn to me - and losing you all one by one - or of finding something else to do with you. Are you interested in hearing the alternative or not?"

This confused most of the people in the group. Voldemort would have killed them all if he thought they served no useful purpose. More significantly, Voldemort would never have given them the chance to listen to choices, then select one. It was pretty clear that this Potter fellow could not make up his mind, or stick to a single course of action for more than a day at a time. But did that mean that he was insane, stupid, or merely indecisive? The plump witch spoke for the group again. "Let us hear what you have in mind, Mister Potter. I'm sure we're all very interested."

Harry glared at them all. He had imagined that there would be shouts and cheering when he offered this bunch the chance to be free of his Service Oath, and instead they stood looking at him as though he were some sort of freak. "What I offer is a simple trade. You will be free of your obligation to the Oath you took... but in return, you will give up your magic!"

"What, promise to not cast spells?" someone shouted.

"No! Your promises are worthless!" Harry barked back. "Four of you proved that your very first night, right here! Another one underscored the lesson last night! YOU COULDN'T KEEP A PROMISE TO SAVE YOUR OWN LIVES!"

"So... what do you mean, give up magic?" a young witch wanted to know.

"I mean," Harry said with exasperation, "that you give up your ability to cast spells. At all. Lose the talent entirely. For good."

"Give it up where?" an old man asked with a shrug, hands spread wide as though begging Harry to make some sense of all of this. "Give it up into the air? Into some kind of Pensieve, into a Rememberall, into our wands...? Which you still have kept from us, I remind you."

"You won't need wands..." Harry began, and stopped himself from continuing the petty comment he had been about to make. Instead, he explained, "You will give your magical talent up - to ME!" The crowd rumbled with hushed comments. "Come on," Harry chided them. "You have lived a day without your wands..."

"It was Hell!" a young wizard said sincerely.

Harry's face darkened. "Then think of the kind of Hell you were about to bring down onto all of us with your damned Halloween attack. Think of what you had planned for me, and for everyone else who wasn't one of your precious organization, and ask yourself how living a day without your wand compares to that!" There was some serious grumbling in response to Harry's comment, which only made him angrier. "I will not stand for being publicly humiliated by any more deaths such as last night's! That man was under investigation for dark wizardry. Then he shows up at the Ministry, during my debut, then he dies under mysterious circumstances. Do you think that makes me look good? Do you think that helps my plans? Do you think I have any patience at all with that kind of irresponsible behavior?" To his astonishment, the more Harry railed at them, the more the group seemed to relax. Some actually smiled. "What?" Harry demanded.

"When you rant like that," a young wizard said, nostalgia in his eyes, "you're almost like Voldemort himself."

"That's IT!" Harry bellowed. "Any more screwups and you won't have to wait for the Curse! I'll kill you myself! Or, you can be free of it all. It's your choice. Now - no more discussion. Anyone who wants to be free of me, step up and be squibbed. The obligations of your Oath will be lifted from you - and I'll take your magic. Then I'll send you home, and you can make whatever mess you want to make out of your lives. Who's first?"

A ragged line formed, and Harry began to work. "Before I finish," he told the first volunteer, "I want you to concentrate on where you would like to go when I send you home. Just as though you were going to apparate. Got it? Good." A tiny, iridescent ball rolled off of Harry's fingers into the hand of his subject. "When I tell you to go, crush that," Harry instructed. "But first..."

Harry's eyes went wide as he felt a tremendous swelling in his chest. He was suddenly wide awake and he felt incredibly strong. He took a moment to control his breathing and to wait for his heart to slow to a normal pulse rate. The magic! The power! He was bursting with strength, with vitality! He forced himself to settle down, and once he was sure he could control his voice, he told the man whose power he had just absorbed, "Experience magic for the last time. Go!"

The man squeezed, crushed the shining bauble and disappeared...

...And reappeared in his library, laughing out loud. He had done it! He had escaped the bonds of the horrid Potter creature and had kept his magic, as well. He didn't feel any different. Nothing had been taken from him. He was free - and he would have his revenge! He imagined the many different ways he could torture Potter to death. Surely enough, there were no Curse-triggered side effects; no coughing of blood, no dissolving of skin. He was free! He swaggered to the delicately carved end table on which rested his father's magic wand. This had been the first wand he had ever used, when his father taught him his first spell. And when his father had died, he had passed the wand down to his son. And that son, now grown, now an ex-Death Eater, now free from Potter's Curse, had used the wand many times, the last times being the previous evening. He wasn't one to be denied his privileges, and had been unwilling to wait for Potter to allow him wand privileges. So he took this wand of his father's and used it freely. The last thing he had done before answering that day's summons from the Dark Mark was to come into this room, which had been his father's library, magically lock the door, and place the wand on the table. He wasn't worried that the wand would be stolen. This room had been especially constructed to hold ancient texts and rare antique books. It was completely sealed against contamination from the outside atmosphere, and when locked, was as impregnable as a bank vault.

The proud wizard lifted his father's wand and directed it toward the doorway. "Alohamora," he spoke commandingly. Nothing happened. No glow appeared on the door. It didn't give the telltale click that should have signalled the release of the lock. It didn't swing open. The man looked at the wand in his hand. It was exactly as it should have been. It was definitely his father's wand. He pointed it at the door again. "Alohamora." Once again, nothing. He rushed toward the door, tried to twist the knob. It was held fast by magic. He pulled to no avail. "Alohamora!" he tried again, uselessly. He threw down the wand, grabbed a heavy reading chair and swung it against the library door. He repeated his attack again and again, until the door had been dented all over, and splintered in many places. But the splinters would not be moved from where they were, held fast by the magical lock which bound them. The man grabbed a heavy table and tried to use it as a battering ram. There was no way that the door was going to yield to such a clumsy attack. He sank to his knees, pounding at the splinters with his fists, screaming "No!" over and over again.

-

Harry stood bouncing on the balls of his feet, weaving as he did so, barely able to contain all of the energy he had absorbed over the past few hours. Ninety seven people had been stripped of their magical ability and sent away. Now there were just three left, and Harry was impatient to be done with the job. "Which of you is next," he said, motioning to the remaining trio to come to him.

"I'm afraid you're stuck with us," said the plump, middle-aged witch who had spoken from the crowd earlier, before he had begun the process of divesting himself of his Army, and of absorbing their power into himself.

"What?" Harry asked, genuinely unable to believe that there could be three who did not wish to have their Oaths rescinded. He blinked as he recognized the other two. The old woman who had been one of those unsafe to take into public, and the young witch who had acted as the group's spokesperson after that first terrible night. "You... want to stay... with me?"

The plump witch laughed easily. With an ironic smile, she suggested, "Just call us the furies, Mister Potter. I, personally, see nothing wrong with following the young man who is about to become the most powerful figure in wizarding Britain."

The old woman grinned viciously. "I can see the value in remaining with the wizard who has just absorbed the magical power of nearly one hundred magic-users into himself. Especially when he can make up his spells on the spot, and doesn't even require a wand to cast them!"

The young witch looked at the ground as she said, "I... like... power. Voldemort failed. You won. You're... my leader, now."

Harry gaped at them, his mind racing. Their ages progressed geometrically, he noticed at once, the youngest being about thirty, the middle-aged one about sixty and the oldest about one hundred twenty years old. They were varied in body type, the youngest athletic, the middle one plump and the oldest very thin. Their hair was uniformly worn long, most likely indicating an oldest-daughter status, if they were following tradition. And, if they were the typical pure-blood chauvanists that Death Eaters tended to be, then they probably were. "What about... the Oath... Curse... all that... uh... stuff," Harry stammered.

"What would I be without magic?" the plump witch asked with a smile. "I really believe that magic has made such a real difference in our basic makeup that we are the real humans and muggles are the new neanderthals. I don't hate squibs - they have a genetic disease. They're more to be pitied than censured. And I don't hate mudbloods. I never thought Voldemort had that right at all. In fact, you could say that mudbloods have pulled themselves up out of the morass of common, obsolete humanity. But we are the superior creatures, without a doubt - and you, Mister Potter, by virtue of your immense power, are the most superior of the lot of us."

"You'll need someone like me, Mister Potter," the oldest witch cackled gleefully. "In the old days, when the Knights of Walpurgis were much more active, whenever we had a mission, I was the last to don my mask and the first to cast it off. I always thought the whole idea of secrecy was cowardly. We should have declared ourselves! And now, you are declaring yourself to the point of taking the highest office in the land. I applaud that. But there will come a time, Mister Potter, when your popularity will not suffice. You will see the need for swift, merciless violence. I am supremely qualified, Mister Potter. Supremely qualified."

"I hope you want me," the youngest witch said plaintively. "I work well within an organization. I'm reliable and discreet. And powerful men..." she met his eyes, and the intensity in her gaze shocked him. "...are what I want."

"Um... Right," Harry said uncertainly. "I guess you all have homes to return to..."

"Is this where you keep your treasures?" the oldest witch inquired, nodding toward the small pile made by the Voldemort action figure, the Bellatrix pincushion and the Wormtail hammer.

"For now," Harry admitted with a shrug.

"Put stronger wards on this room. And set some traps. Anyone who manages to break in through your first line of protection should not be given a free pass to the valuables."

"Right. Good idea," Harry acknowledged. "Now, I think there..."

"Yes, it would be a good idea for you to know us by name, as there are only three of us now," the white-haired witch interrupted again. Euryale is my formal name, though most call me Hettie."

"Victoria," smiled the plump one.

"Cassandra," the youngest offered shyly. "Cass, usually."

"Good," Harry nodded encouragingly. "Great. Now, this whole run for Minister is not going to be easy. Can all of you return to campaigning? Right then. I'll seal this place up. You people get out and get some votes!"

When the three witches had disapparated, Harry set some wards and a magical lock on the Revel Room. He would have to remember to apparate into some other place in the complex. It would be quite dangerous to attempt to enter the Revel Room without removing his protective spells. He stood wondering exactly what to do next. He had the magic of nearly one hundred Death Eaters stored within him as though he were a battery. There had to be something useful to do with that power. When he realized what he had to do, it seemed so obvious that he didn't congratulate himself on having a good idea, but rather slapped himself in the forehead for not having thought of it before.

He visualized Saint Mungo's and was gone.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Harry appeared outside the lobby of the great hospital and wandered through the main entrance, not quite sure where he was supposed to go. He didn't have to wander long before someone recognized him and shouted out a greeting.

"Hello. If it isn't Harry Potter," said a tall, smiling mediwizard, striding purposefully toward Harry with his hand extended. Harry accepted the handshake, but before he could ask for directions, the mediwizard said, "I owe you a great deal of thanks, Mister Potter. You saved quite a number of people the night before Halloween. Sometimes, what a healer needs most is reliable medical evacuation assistance, and though I admit I don't have any idea how you did it, I can tell you that your bringing those people here made a real difference. None of us would have known how to reach them... or even that they were hurt. And if we had known, and had to rely on transporting each patient individually, we would have been too slow to obtain the results that we did. Each patient's treatment would have been more difficult, and their healing wouldn't have been anywhere near as smooth. Thank you, Mister Potter. Sincerely."

By the end of that speech, Harry's face was bright red. "I'm glad I could help," he said. "That's what I want to do, mostly, now. Help. However I can." He gathered his nerve and looked the mediwizard in the eye. His next statement was astonishingly hard for him to say, but if he was going to be a success, he would have to get used to making such statements regularly. "You know, I'm running for Minister. I'd appreciate your vote."

The healer studied the boy for a moment. "You know, under normal circumstances, I wouldn't be giving my vote to Cornelius Fudge in any case. I'm a conservative. Last election, I supported Wilhelmus Pitt. You can see how effective that was. But your age would seem to be a barrier to your taking office. Have you filed papers to appear officially on the ballot?"

"My staff is taking care of that today," Harry waved the concern away as though it hardly mattered at all.

"And if the Registrar does not allow someone of your tender years to be included on the official ballot?"

"If Fudge's Ministry prohibits me from appearing, that will only swing public opinion more toward my candidacy," Harry replied confidently.

The mediwizard laughed. "Good for you. In politics, the most successful aspirants are usually the ones who claim they can't possibly lose. If you can turn your absence from the ballot into an advantage, then you may well prove successful after all." Harry had nothing to say to that, so he nodded and tried to act nonchalant. The mediwizard waited for some further comment, and when none was forthcoming, offered, "Let me turn the tables then and ask: How may I help you?"

"I'd like to see the Longbottoms, please. Husband and wife, they're long-term patients in the..."

"I know them," the mediwizard interrupted, glancing around to see who may have been listening in on his conversation. No one appeared to be unduly interested, so he quietly questioned Harry. "Do you know the condition in which the Longbottoms have remained for the past years of their stay here?"

"I know," Harry said sadly. "I just fought the people that did that to them. I thought that I should see them. I know I won't have much of a visit as far as conversation or anything, but... I want to see them."

The mediwizard seemed very uncomfortable. "When was the last time you saw either of them?" Harry made a noncommittal motion. The mediwizard scowled. "They have become much worse of late," he warned. Then, seeing that Harry was not discouraged, he reemphasized, "Much worse." Harry merely looked more determined. The mediwizard was on the brink of forbidding the visit, but remembered that he had just been praising Harry as a hero. If the boy was tough enough to survive a disaster like the night before Halloween, perhaps he was strong enough to take a visit with the Longbottoms. The healer relented and said, "I'll take you. It's a bit of a maze to get there. And you may need a password or two in order to make it through all the security."

Harry thanked the man, but it soon became clear that it was neither the confusing architecture nor the security checks that would slow Harry's progress the most. Mediwizards and mediwitches saw the boy and rushed to thank him for helping the victims of the night before Halloween. Medical researchers in their formal robes and emergency healers in their practical garments filled the halls as Harry made his slow progress toward the Mental Ward. Everyone seemed to want to congratulate the young man who had helped so many people. 'At least they're not staring at me because I failed to die from a killing curse,' Harry thought. This new kind of attention helped to counter some of the bitterness he still felt at being recognized as 'The Boy Who Lived.'

At the heavy, locked doorway into the Mental Health wing of the hospital, Harry lost most of his well-wishers as they returned to their duties and he checked in with the guards. The people on duty at the door did not call themselves guards, nor was 'guard' their official title. They were officially nurses. But their grim seriousness and watchful demeanor - not to mention their wands kept constantly to hand - gave them the unmistakable appearance of security personnel. Apparently, some of the patients at Saint Mungo's were so unpredictable that constant vigilance was called for. But in the small area that Harry was led to, the patients were all too predictable. For the most part, those being treated there had been comatose, or immobile, or completely uncommunicative for years. For Harry, the scene was made even more heartbreaking by the care the staff took to provide as much light, color and decoration as hospital regulations allowed. And how little any of the patients seemed to be aware of that effort. Some sat motionless, staring, barely breathing. Some lay as though deeply asleep. But the Longbottoms appeared to be dead. Both lay on their backs, shoulders propped up by pillows, eyes open, and totally blank. They hardly seemed to breathe. Harry had to watch for a long while before he caught a hint of motion that betrayed respiration. "May I have some time alone with them?" Harry asked a mediwitch who was just finishing work on a neighboring patient. The mediwitch nodded and looked over the couple who had lain unresponsively for so long. "You can have as much time as you'd like... oh! I should say, as much time as you would like up to two hours or so. After that, we'll have to be here to care for them. Some of what we have to do is a bit unpleasant for those not used to treatment of this sort. But feel free to talk to them. I still believe that they hear quite a lot of what goes on around them. And if we ever find a way to help them, I think they'll be better off the more stimulation of that sort they receive."

Harry studied the mediwitch carefully, trying to understand how she could continue to come to work day after day to treat patients that never got any better. She must have had a tremendous store of determination to keep from becoming thoroughly discouraged. 'And I had almost convinced myself that I was a hero,' he chided himself. Then he remembered what he had told the mediwizard. Even if he wasn't a hero, perhaps in this case he could be of some help.

Harry found a chair and placed it between the Longbottoms' beds. As pleasant as the mediwitch's suggestion had been, he didn't think he would be speaking much for the next couple of hours. He found a comfortable position, settled in to it, let his eyes go out of focus and concentrated on the people on either side of him. They had shown no physical activity for years, but they weren't dead. So there had to be some mental activity, no matter how minimal. He searched, as though listening very hard for the tiniest of sounds. And after a long while during which he heard nothing, there was some faint impression tantalizingly just beyond his reach. He concentrated more intently, and the impression became clearer.

-

"What in Merlin's name is this?" The Director of Mental Health at Saint Mungo's had been summoned from home to deal with an emergency. He expected to be called upon in that fashion from time to time, and had not been particularly annoyed at the request. But once he had arrived, no one could seem to tell him what the trouble was. And when he saw the supposed crisis for himself, he was completely baffled. A visitor had taken a chair between two beds and had apparently fallen asleep there. What could be so difficult to handle about that situation? Wake the boy up, or carry him away, the Director insisted. To the Director's intense irritation, his staff informed him that no one could approach the area around the beds. "Is there a wall?" the Director demanded. "Is there a force field? A magical barrier? Anything that might actually prevent the authorized health care workers at this hospital from approaching those beds and the snoozing visitor between them?" There were no such impediments. But no one could get anywhere near either of the beds.

The Director scowled, looked at the peaceful tableau before him and decided to march right up to the visitor and ask him what his business was. A few moments later, the Director collected his thoughts and realized that he was in fact standing in front of a different pair of beds, between which there was no visitor.

The Director questioned those of his staff who had just seen his movements. They told him very clearly that he had not been apparated, flown or forced away from the Longbottoms and their visitor. But as he had approached to within a few bed-lengths of them, he had simply changed his mind and wandered away. The Director did not like having his mind changed for him.

He went to the housekeeping closet and picked out a long pushbroom. He approached as close to the Longbottoms as he dared, reached out with the broom... and dropped it. He reached forward to pick it up, and came to his senses standing in front of the closet, about to put the broom back away. He called for his most knowledgeable researchers and some test equipment. There was definitely something to be learned from this.

-

Behind the counter in the Hall of Records at the Ministry, Elspeth Surewater looked in confusion at the application that had just been handed to her. She looked back up at the handsome man standing at the head of the line of wizards and witches waiting to file official documents. She wasn't sure how to put this. She didn't want to offend him, and it was rather sad that he had spent so much time waiting, but this simply wouldn't do. "Pardon me," she said solicitously, using her soothing voice to cushion the disappointment that would certainly follow her explanation. "But this form has already been filed."

The handsome man did not become angry, but he was clearly confused. "Are you sure?" Elspeth nodded with a sweet smile. "But... who would do such a thing? Who would file this? And why?"

"That man just leaving," Elspeth purred in a hypnotist's soporific tone. "The one in the long, black, rather severe robe. He filed this very form only two minutes ago. You could ask him."

"Hold on to that one too," the handsome man requested. "Put the two together. I think mine has the correct address." He was out of line and off after the other man even as he finished speaking.

Elspeth sighed. She had to spend so much time with the unpleasant ones, and when a pleasant, attractive man such as that one arrived at the window, he was always gone at a run before she had even learned his name. Such a pity.

"Next," she called sweetly and offered a pleasant smile to the next man in line, a rather ugly and very angry fellow who slammed his form down on the counter and began to complain before Elspeth could even see what he was trying to file. "How nice," she crooned, looking up to catch a final glimpse of the retreating handsome man, and causing her current applicant to gawk at her uncomprehendingly.

"Pardon me. Sir! Please! Pardon me. Sir!" Remus caught up to the tall man in the severe black robe and practically blocked his path to gain his attention. "Pardon me, but it seems as though you filed my application before I had a chance to do so today."

"I applied for no patents, registered no copyrights, nor filed any lawsuits today," the man explained icily. "I doubt that I have trod upon your business inadvertently."

"Right," Remus agreed with a smile. "So how does it happen that you are filing for Harry Potter's candidacy for Minister in our next election?"

"I... I beg your pardon?" the other man said, pretending to misunderstand.

"I am Remus Lupin, representative of Harry James Potter, candidate for Minister of Magic. I brought my client's application to the Ministry today only to find that our Records clerk did not wish to accept it, due to the fact that you had filed the same form on behalf of the same person only minutes before. Who are you, and why are you tampering with my client's candidacy?"

"Because, Mister Lupin, since I do not believe that either you or Mister Potter is a practicing solicitor, I doubt that either of you would know any of the very few ways that his name might be added to an official ballot despite his age. I am, and I do. I wanted to make sure that, when the objections are heard from the defeated after Mister Potter's victory, the simplest problems had been swept away." With a tight smirk on his face, the stranger watched Remus process all of that.

"You're certainly going out of your way to do us a favor," Remus pointed out. "Who are you?"

The other man laughed, a wicked gleam in his eye. "I am Deckard Constantine, late Chief of Minister Fudge's staff. I resigned my staff position immediately following Minister Fudge's decision to oppose Mister Potter's candidacy - the declaration of which, as it happened, took place in my office at the Ministry. I resigned from this administration because I believe Mister Potter will win the popular vote. And because I believe that Mister Potter will soon realize he needs someone experienced in the Ministry's inner workings to help him accomplish whatever it is he wishes to do. I am looking for a job, Mister Lupin. As Harry Potter's representative, I hope you will recommend me. Unless you can hire me on your own authority, that is."

"I appreciate the candor," Remus said, genuinely astonished at the directness of Constantine's approach. "How did you... I mean... which of your 'few ways' to make Harry's application acceptable did you choose to use?" All during the conversation, Remus had studied the man, wondering if he posed any threat. Wolf senses provided the maximum information in the minimum time. The man did not smell menacing, nor did he exhibit fear at having been discovered. On the contrary, he seemed excited and enthusiastic to have met one of Harry's protectors. The man showed none of the telltale signs of lying, but that was less significant. Remus understood that this was most likely a man who mislead others by using selected bits of the truth rather than by employing outright falsehood. But though Constantine might be clever or manipulative, the Wolf found no reason to presume he was dangerous.

"You are probably aware that we in the wizarding community have long depended upon the aurors to police our civil society," Deckard lectured. Remus had to force himself not to laugh at the didactic style, but he had to admit that the man was very confident about what he was saying. In his own mind at least, Constantine was a master of his subject. "Meanwhile, we have left the soldiering to the muggles. A wise idea? I do not believe so. But what do we do when we, the wizarding community, need a military force? You are probably aware that the general euphemism for those who go to war on behalf of British wizardry is: 'In Service.' Placing individuals In Service is necessarily looser and more flexible than the rigid military traditions common to muggles, and there's what I took advantage of on behalf of Mister Potter. Those who have performed with distinction In Service are acknowledged to have gained extraordinary experience. Those who have led a battle are presumed to have gained proportionately greater experience. Those who have planned a successful campaign have exhibited their maturity, as well as resourcefulness and ability to make decisions under pressure. On Mister Potter's application, I credited him with solving the Voldemort crisis. He effectively planned, led and did the lion's share of the fighting in the last battle with the dread dark wizard, thus proving his qualifications as a candidate for our highest office."

Remus shook his head slowly, wearing a sad smile. "No one with any official authority placed Harry In Service," he said with a sigh.

"There wasn't time," Constantine shrugged. "I can testify to that because I was in the Minister's office on the night before Halloween. The battle was over before the Minister knew it had been joined. Besides, all I want to achieve by putting an In Service credit on Mister Potter's election papers is the inclusion of his name on the ballot. It will actually do more good for Mister Potter if, after the election, there are objections to his claim of military status. If anyone - especially Minister Fudge, who should have been the one to recruit him - disputes it, Mister Potter will be able to show the evidence to prove that he was, in fact, the Hero of Halloween, and that our current Minister is merely weeping over a bowl of sour fruit. Mister Potter's defense against such objections will be the showpiece he needs to convince anyone who remains doubtful of his qualifications for the office he seeks. And it will, frankly, make Minister Fudge look like an idiot."

Remus chuckled quietly. "You certainly have no love for your previous employer."

"Have you ever spent any time with Cornelius Fudge?" Constantine challenged, eyes flashing.

"Nothing... significant," Remus murmured, thinking of a time three years ago when Fudge could have helped clear Sirius Black's name, but instead betrayed those he should have supported.

"Good for you," Deckard said sarcastically, wondering what had disturbed Lupin so much.

The two men went to the Ministry cafeteria, bought coffee, and talked for nearly two hours.

-

Ron entered the Great Hall for dinner, and paused for a moment to appreciate the differences amongst the four House tables. Those waiting to dine at the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables seemed a bit more animated than usual. The Slytherin table hosted a particularly glum looking crew, sullenly waiting for food to be served. But the Gryffindor table was filled with students laughing, cheering, and calling to one another along its entire length. There were a few subdued Gryffindors, and Ron's eyes were drawn to one in particular. He went to sit next to Hermione and smiled at her as she gave him a brief nod by way of acknowledging his presence.

"So..." Ron started out cheerfully, then realized he had no idea what to say. Hermione turned back toward him and waited for him to continue, which merely flustered him all the more, driving all reasonable conversation from his mind, and leaving doomed requests like 'Kiss me,' and foolish questions like 'Why don't you love me anymore?' rattling around his brain and fighting for their chance to be spoken and embarrass him even further. He finally remembered what he had intended to ask Hermione since he had heard the news that morning. "You going to vote?"

Hermione sighed and shook her head. "I'm glad I never counted on you remembering my birthday," she said, clearly disappointed.

Ron sat there, flummoxed. What had he said this time? He had only asked about the most exciting news to hit the Gryffindor common room since the last Quiddich Cup, and now she was on about her birthday. He puzzled over Hermione's reaction until the girl took pity on him and explained.

"I'm young for our class, Ron. My birthday comes too late for me to vote this year. I won't be allowed to cast a ballot."

"What? That's daft." Ron was instantly angry at the outrage. "If there's anyone in this whole school could make an informed, intelligent decision, it's you. It would make more sense to let you vote instead of the rest of us, then multiply your choices by as many of us as there are."

Hermione looked uncomfortable. "It wouldn't work, Ron. As for informed... I know I haven't been very favorably impressed with anything Minister Fudge has done..."

"Forget Fudge," Ron scoffed. "Harry's running!"

"And he'll probably win," Hermione admitted sadly. "Which will be unfortunate for everyone, because although he is old enough to vote, he doesn't meet the minimum age requirement for the Ministership, and so his victory will be challenged immediately, but the decision won't be immediate and either way it's decided, there'll be an appeal. So Harry will have the win, but not the office. And we'll be without a Minister at all until the mess gets straightened out. Which might take months, because if the final decision is to disallow Harry from serving, we'll have to hold another election. And then everyone who did vote for Harry will feel angry over having their choice taken away. Civil wars have been started over less."

Ron stared at her wide-eyed. Trust Hermione to take the best news and turn it into pure gloom.

"But I was talking about being informed," Hermione continued, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "We haven't seen Harry, haven't talked to him, have no idea what he's been doing. He disappeared, let us believe he might be dead..."

"He was getting ready to take out old You Know... uh... Voldemort." Ron corrected himself as he caught Hermione's glare at his reliance for the old euphemism. Ron shuddered. It still felt weird saying the dreaded name.

"We don't know what he was doing, Ron. We used to do things together."

"Yeah, well, the two of us used to do things together, too. Things change."

"That's what worries me. People change, too. If Harry hadn't changed, I think he might have let us know... something. That he was alive, at least. That's not all. Harry has always hated Voldemort. He always wanted revenge for his parents. Then for Cedric, and then for Sirius. If Harry had gone around the world to kill Voldemort, I wouldn't have been surprised. But where did running for Minister come from? Harry never liked politics, he didn't even like to talk about it. He didn't need to be in the public eye. About the only time he accepted attention gracefully was on the quiddich pitch. He hated being 'The Boy Who Lived.' A natural politician would have been unable to keep himself from capitalizing on that."

Ron wrinkled his nose as he caught one corner of his lip between his teeth. He thought about what Hermione was saying, and had to agree that, by and large, she was right. "Maybe killing You Know... uh... Voldemort made him feel... kind of... responsible for what happens after. So he would have to take charge to make sure everything came out all right."

"Maybe," Hermione said absently. "But what I was thinking was, if Harry disappeared, then kept himself locked away from the people who know him best, then suddenly started behaving totally differently... how do we know that he's really Harry Potter at all?"

"We could tell if we could talk to him," Ron stated with certainty.

"If," Hermione said sourly. "We don't even know where he is."

Ron grinned, intrigued by the challenge. "I'll bet we could find him if we worked together."

Hermione didn't answer right away, but Ron wasn't worried. He knew her well enough to be quite sure. Harry... or whoever was impersonating him... didn't stand a chance of avoiding the two of them.

-

By evening, Snape and Lupin had both become too worried to sit at home and do nothing. Harry had been gone all day without a word, and both men knew that, Oaths or no Oaths, Death Eaters were dangerous people. Remus and Severus came to their decisions at almost exactly the same time, and both readied their wands and agreed to apparate to the Stone complex, where Harry had most likely spent the day. They concentrated, visualized the revel room... and nothing happened. Somehow, their first-chosen destination was blocked to them. But both of them knew another point in the complex - the anteroom just beyond the revel room. They agreed to the new destination and disappeared to the accompaniment of a double thunderclap.

They appeared in the anteroom to find it silent - and totally dark. Keeping his head low, in case there were hidden lurkers waiting to attack, Snape whispered "Lumos," and the tip of his wand blazed with a brilliant white light. The anteroom was, in fact deserted. Remus rushed to the revel room door, confirmed his suspicion that it would be locked, attempted an Alohamora, found the spell to be insufficient, and nodded toward the opposite exit. The two men quickly and quietly searched the complex. They did not find Harry. Nor was anyone else present. By the time they had worked their way back to the anteroom, Remus was ready to try something that would have been impossible for him only a few weeks ago.

"I'm going to change," he informed Snape. "I'll need my good ears and my nose to determine whether anyone is in the locked room."

Snape stared suspiciously at the werewolf. "I don't believe that's wise," he said, mouth dry.

Remus looked genuinely surprised, as though he had just remembered that night long ago when Snape had been menaced by Lupin's vulpine form. "You don't think I would go all this way just to bite you now, do you?"

The glare from Snape's wand kept Remus from seeing the man's face clearly. "If you don't mind, I'll wait over here," Snape said stiffly, leveling his wand into a position from which he could launch an attack in an instant.

"Fine," Remus said tersely, turning away. His face began to stretch, his arms started to change angulation, his spine adjusted its attachment to his pelvis. Unlike most animagi, Remus transformed slowly, and he seemed to suffer from the ordeal of changing, though not nearly so much as when his transformations were involuntary. Within a minute, a huge wolf stood facing the locked doorway.

Wolves in the wild could be tall, but they tended to be thin creatures - agile, but not particularly heavy. Their phenomenal success rate in the hunt could be ascribed to their quick intelligence, their craftiness and the cooperation of the pack rather than from sheer physical power. Remus' vulpine form had always been heavier than a normal wild wolf, since the shape he assumed during his involuntary changes incorporated the monstrous aspects of his humanity as well as the bestial qualities of his body. But now that he had achieved control over his changes, the aspect he presented was more impressive than his previous werewolf form had ever been.

Standing on four legs, he weighed at least as much as his human body did when fully clothed. And while his previous bestial shape had been a grotesque distortion of wolf and man, the form he displayed now was like an idealization of a wolf. His fur was thick and rich, his bearing was regal, his eyes shone with a golden glow. He tried to ignore Snape, who was pressed against the far wall, his wand trained on the wolf's heart. Remus understood that the man suffered from fear, and because of their particular history, he would have a difficult time overcoming that fear. Remus would have to show that he could be trusted, that the two of them could work together. The Wolf felt contempt for the human cowering against the stone, but Remus' human mind knew that whatever else he may have earned, Severus Snape did not deserve his contempt.

The wolf sniffed, listened, sniffed some more and then stood alert, waiting for an impression to come from a sixth sense he had never identified, but which had never steered him wrong. He stood feeling the atmosphere until he was sure. Then, laboriously, he forced himself back into his human form.

"Harry was here... but we knew that," he reported. "He's not in there now. I know it."

"You know it?" Snape scoffed.

"You use your eyes. I use my nose. You're blinded by darkness, invisibility or any opaque object. I'm not. Harry locked this door very well. But humans almost never think of sealing anything airtight, unless they're preserving food. So the smell finds its way out, if there's any smell at all. He's not in there. That... thing... that he made of Pettigrew - that's still in there."

"And Voldemort?" Snape asked anxiously.

"He turned Voldemort into plastic," Remus complained. "I'm not a miracle worker. But Harry's not there, and neither is any other flesh and blood human. I know it."

"Right," Snape drawled. "So, where is he?"

-

Sitting at a tiny table in a small office of the muggle government far from the Hogwarts grounds, Hermione shook her curly hair back over her shoulders. It was a new habit for her, almost a nervous tic, but the motion captured Ron's attention so fully he didn't realize that Hermione had actually found something important until she reached out and tugged on his collar. "There," she said proudly.

"Naw," Ron replied in disbelief, staring at the long list of names and numbers spread open on the reference desk. "Why didn't we know about that before?"

"We never thought to look," Hermione said smugly. "Really, Ron, why would we have?"

"Do you want to try it? Go there?"

"Why not?"

"We'll need a map."

"We can get one right here."

Their eyes met, and the sense of adventure that had so often filled them before they had launched their ill-fated romance returned in force. "It's worth a bit more off-campus travel, don't you think?"

"Definitely."

"Tomorrow?"

"Morning. Early."

-

"Wha' th'Ell's THIS?" bellowed Ambrose Garamond, Calligrapher In Charge for the Ministry of Magic Printing Office.

"It is precisely what it says it is," came the snooty reply from Devan Gorseheather, Project Coordinator for Wizarding Ballot Preparation. "There is a new candidate to be included, and he must appear on each of the Ballots to be used in the election."

"Wha' abou' THESE?" Ambrose thundered, indicating the neat stacks of thousands of completed ballots, ready for transportation to the polling places.

"Those are incorrect," sniffed Devan. "Do with them whatever you do with incorrectly produced material."

"These'r Nawt INCORRECT," Ambrose shouted back. "They're PERFECT! They're READY! Wass'is new candidate? Inn'ner a cutoff date? Don'we 'ave a Deadline?"

"Not, apparently, for War Heroes," Devan smirked.

"War 'Eroes? Y'need a bleedin' WAR for there t'be War 'Eroes!"

"It seems we had one. This man fought the whole thing by himself without troubling the rest of us with it in the least. That's a war hero in my book. Put him on the ballot. Let the people decide."

Devan left, his message delivered, his worries over until it was time to check the new ballots for accuracy. Ambrose pulled one of the completed, correct, absolutely perfect ballots from one of the stacks that had been set for delivery. He called a Calligrapher Second Class to his side. "C'Mere, you!" He indicated the perfectly good ballot and the request which had made it worthless. "Y'see this?" He drew his finger across the tiny space below the listing for Minister Cornelius Fudge. "Look 'Ere. C'n you squeez'is new bloke inta there?"

The Calligrapher Second Class knew better than to claim to be unable to accomplish what the Calligrapher In Charge had already decided was what would be done. He nodded, pouting forlornly at the tiny space available.

"Do it, then!" Commanded the Calligrapher in charge, and the unfortunate Calligrapher Second Class was left to dash throughout the work area, ordering everyone to, "Get out the Repeatoquills!" and spreading the word about the, "Emergency Addition!" He scrupulously avoided calling the rush job a 'Reprint.' It was far too close to election day, and all the Calligraphers' nerves were stretched tight as it was. Riots had been started for less.

-

Harry stood in the middle of a street very like Diagon Alley, except for the fact that his feet were at the apex of a single cobblestone which curved away from him like the dome of an immense cathedral. There were buildings in view, grotesque gargantuan edifices painted in garishly brilliant colors. None of them had any doors or windows. Their doorways and window frames were empty, and dark. People in great numbers passed by, but none of them faced him. As they approached, walking backward, they would turn as they drew near to walk away with their backs toward him. No one in sight had a visible face. The sky was a violent mixture of heavy storm clouds and glaring sunlight. There was no middle value of illumination. Everything in sight either gleamed blindingly or receded into impenetrable shadow. Almost all sounds were curiously muffled, as though heard at a distance through cotton wool. Occasionally, a shriek of anguish or a scream of fury would pierce that wooly insulation, all the more shocking for its sudden clarity.

Harry did not fool himself that he was experiencing the mental picture of the world as seen by either of the Longbottoms. He was quite aware that this was his own interpretation of their catastrophic withdrawal from the world. His attempt to understand their perceptions had been cobbled together from his vague impressions of each of the Longbottoms' separate and unique dementias. But it would have to do. If he were going to provide either of those long-suffering people any relief at all, it would have to do.

Harry saw a flying shape like a fluttering dark rag darting around the sky. He contemplated it for a while, and guessed that the flying rag-thing most likely stood for one or both of the LeStranges. Armed with his own knowledge of those people's demise, he blasted the specter from the sky and congratulated himself on handling the disturbing symbolism of this place so well. He should have known better. The Longbottoms had been strong-willed people, and the LeStrange specters must have been blasted or otherwise destroyed many times over during the past years. Within seconds, another flying specter, indistinguishable from the first, was flitting about the sky, unperturbed at having been blasted.

Harry thought of running through the outlandishly oversized cityscape around him, and felt thoroughly daunted at the prospect of covering such immense distances on foot. Then he thought of how much easier his search would be if he flew. He remembered his broomless flying lesson, taken in the front yard at Godric's Hollow, and kicked off, taking to the air. As soon as his flying magic became active, fire belched from every empty window frame and doorway. Fire filled the sky, and choking smoke seared his throat. He landed, and the fires went out. The air became clear once again.

"Right, then," Harry said out loud. "No magic." There was no reply. "I can't search for you, so you'll have to come to me," he said conversationally, speaking to the entire scene around him as though to a personal friend. There was still no direct reply, but the crowd of people, all turned away from him, hunched their shoulders as though fending off a cold wind. "Don't worry. You can find me. I'm right here. I'll call."

After only a few repetitions, Harry realized that 'Mr. Longbottom' and 'Mrs. Longbottom' were ridiculous names to use here. He searched for alternatives, and vaguely recalled that Neville's parents had been called Frank and Alice. He began to shout those names out loud, the crowd pulling their coats tighter around themselves and turning their collars up as he called.

As he paused for breath, Harry had the impression of some kind of attempt to reply to his calling. He waited, listening, trying to feel, taste or smell the reply that was just beyond his hearing. He called again, listened again, repeated the process several times. Finally, he could hear - not words - but an idea of an attitude, the sound of a gesture, floating past him. It was untranslatable, and would have been pure gibberish if put into words, but the feeling said something along the lines of, "I can't come to you. You're in the wrong town."

Harry replied in as close to the same fashion as possible, visualizing his response more than actually articulating it. The result was a rather distant sounding cry of "Come out, then, where we can speak directly to one another."

The reaction was immediate. Fear. Confusion. A horrible sense of betrayal. The tenuous contact Harry had achieved was broken. He called again. It was obvious that making a sure contact with the injured couple would not be simple. But Harry was determined. And he had absorbed so much power that he had a better chance of success right now than at any other time in his life.

-

In the time he had stayed at the house in Godric's Hollow, Severus Snape had become quite enamored of the quiet. All of the neighbors had deserted the area long ago. There was no traffic along the street that passed by the front yard. There were no visitors. And the only people with whom he was required to share the residence were the very considerate Remus Lupin, and Harry Potter, who had been too busy learning to control his new abilities to get into any trouble.

Remus loved the peaceful atmosphere as well. Between the time he had moved away from his childhood home to the time he had taken up residence in Godric's Hollow, the most relaxing place Lupin had ever lived had been Hogwarts. And there, he had been very busy teaching, grading assignments and planning lessons. Plus, he had felt obligated to make himself available to his students at any time, and was likely to be awakened at all hours of the night by anything from genuine emergencies to poltergeist attack. There was almost no comparison between this comfortable, nearly silent home and the noisy, unpleasant places the werewolf had resided over the years.

Both men were looking forward to some peaceful relaxation when they arrived back at the house after apparating around the country searching for some clue as to what had happened to Harry Potter. They were as uninformed on their return as they had been when they left, and both felt the need to rest and reconsider their options before starting out on another search. Remus made tea, and both men settled down to a steaming cup, reviewing what they knew and wondering what to do next.

So it came as a shock when a knock sounded at the front door. Severus nearly dropped his cup, then placed it carefully back onto its saucer so that it made no noise. Drawing his wand, he moved silently toward the door, Remus following several steps behind, crouching, wand at the ready, checking for any movement outside the windows.

As Snape drew near to the door, he could hear youthful voices chattering away on the porch. His first thought was that those sounds were a mere distraction to help disguise an attack, but as he caught a few more words from outside, he was suddenly certain of what he would find when he opened the door. He motioned to Remus to indicate that there was probably not an immediate threat, drew himself up to his full height and swung open the door.

"...told you!" crowed a male voice. "This is... Professor Snape?" Ron Weasley stood there, uncertain of what to say next.

Hermione saved him from his indecision. "We've come to see Harry," she informed the potions professor, then waited politely to be invited in.

"Have you... been with... Mister Potter? Recently?" Snape wanted to know.

"No," Ron replied, confused. "That's why we've come. We'd like to see him."

Snape smiled at this, but there was so much skepticism in his expression, he might as well have snarled. "So, out of nowhere, you decided to drop by the little settlement of Godric's Hollow. Which is out of the way, practically unknown to anyone, and as it so happens, entirely muggle."

Ron was thoroughly sick of Snape's constant sneering and his superior attitude. It was bad enough to have to endure it at school, but to encounter the man here, hundreds of miles from Hogwarts, was infuriating. He replied with his own rather thick sarcasm. "Not out of nowhere, out of a tax roll," he declared.

An instant later, Ron wished that he could have a photograph of that moment to keep and savor forever. He wasn't quite sure what had done it, but all of a sudden, he was the one standing there with the answers, and Snape was... frightened? Nervous, certainly.

Very slowly, so as to make sure his question was very well understood, Snape said, "You, Mister Weasley, found this house in a tax roll?"

Ron's attitude lost some intensity. "Hermione did, actually. She used a muggle trick she learned at home."

"It only makes sense," Hermione explained. "The home is on a muggle tax roll. I only found it because I was making a last try after failing to find any properties belonging to James and Lily Potter in any wizarding tax records. The tax on this place is grossly overdue," she added apologetically.

"Seventeen years behind," Ron said with wonder in his voice. "It's amazing there aren't marshals here now to Ow!" Hermione's foot came down hard on Ron's.

"The important thing is," Hermione said quickly, "that once we had an address, all we needed to do was look at a parcel map. That's a map that..."

"I know what a parcel map is," Snape drawled. "But -" he looked each of his visitors in the eye before continuing. "Are you telling me that you were able to locate... this place... on a map? And then follow those directions here?"

"That's how we got here," Ron said defensively, wondering what was so strange about finding directions from a map.

"And how did you arrive?"

Ron's anger was back up again. All Snape knew how to do was needle, irritate and harass. And this man was supposed to be a teacher? He was horrible. "I flew," Ron said, scowling.

"Broomstick?" Snape asked, drawing the syllables out to show his disdain for that particular mode of transportation.

"Yes. I flew here on my broomstick. Yes, it was a long flight. Yes, it was cold. Yes, it's getting dark. Yes, I'll probably be flying back in the middle of the night."

"I thought that you, Miss Granger, were not an afficionado of broomstick flight?"

"I never pursued it," Hermione corrected Snape promptly. "At Hogwarts, the emphasis on brooms was all about quiddich. I wasn't interested in trying out for Beater. However, riding as a passenger on this flight, I found it quite enjoyable. I may take it up." Hermione enjoyed the flash of surprise that crossed Snape's face, then asked, "Is Harry not here, Professor?"

Snape's sneer broke enough to allow the hint of a smile to tug at one corner of his mouth. "Once again, Miss Granger, you bring a refreshing directness and lucidity to a conversation with Gryffindors. No, Harry is not here, and has been absent for the better part of a day."

"So what are you doing here?" Ron asked sullenly.

Remus was convinced by then that the children had come on their own. There was no one using them as a distraction. They were certainly not anyone's prisoners. "Waiting," he called out approaching the door in such a way that Severus automatically moved a step to the side to allow him room. "And while we're waiting, trying to figure out where to look next."

"Remus!" Hermione and Ron cried together. As Snape looked on with irritation, Hermione stepped into the house and gave Remus a quick hug. Ron followed her... and realized that he would be embarrassed to offer to hug Lupin. Remus solved the problem almost before Ron's hesitation was noticeable at all. He reached out, grabbed Ron's hand, shook it firmly, and invited both visitors in to the kitchen for tea.

"Where to look... next?" Hermione asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Yes," Remus sighed, pouring tea for everyone. "We've already been... well, all around, really. I presume you have come from Hogwarts?" Hermione nodded. "And, it goes without saying... why do people say that?" Remus asked, and Hermione laughed out loud. She couldn't stop staring at the man. Werewolf. Whatever he was. There was something different about him, almost as if he were a different man from the one who had taught Defense Against the Dark Arts. The difference was multifaceted, subtle, and very appealing.

Remus waited for Hermione's burst of laughter to fade, then continued his train of thought. "If Harry is not at Hogwarts, and Professor Snape and I know that he's not at the Ministry, or... um... several other places we have already searched. I was hoping either one of you had some clue as to where he might be."

"He hasn't told us anything," Hermione sighed. "I haven't even gotten a letter from him since... since before school started. What is wrong with him?"

"I believe he has finally realized his destiny," Remus pronounced pompously. "He has finally become a wizard... more powerful than... Hermione Granger!"

Hermione laughed again, and punched Remus lightly on the shoulder. Ron looked on, baffled. Was she flirting with the ex-teacher? 'She looks more comfortable in that adult man's company than she ever did in mine,' Ron thought miserably. He felt he had nothing to add to the conversation, especially since Hermione was already pointing out the obvious: "We thought he was here."

Perhaps the man was only trying to be polite, but he turned to Ron and asked for the boy's suggestions. Ron felt put on the spot, and spit out the first thing that came to mind. "Have you tried the hospital?" He received glares from three people for that, and had to explain himself.

"I don't mean that he got hurt. After what he did before Halloween, I'm not sure he can be hurt. But... he sent all those people in for emergency care. It was in the newspaper. And maybe he went to see... you know... how they were doing or something." Ron felt immediately, intensely embarrassed. He was certain that he was out of his depth. His companions included a Professor, a man who had survived a lifetime of lycanthropy... and Hermione. Yes, definitely out of his depth.

So Ron was thoroughly shocked when Remus told Snape, "The boy's right. If it had been anyone else, we would have checked the hospital first, afraid he had been injured. Because it was Harry, we never thought of him getting hurt... at least not in any way that would allow him a chance to reach a hospital before it was too late. But Ron is right. Harry may have gone to check on the people he saved. He would do that."

"Gryffindor bravado, lording it over the people who now owe him?" Snape ventured.

"Just Harry, being concerned for those he was involved with, however tangentially," Remus amended. "We should check. Do you want to go, or should I?"

"Can we come?" Hermione and Ron were both on their feet, eager to accompany the adults.

"We'll be apparating," Remus warned. "Ron, Professor Snape will have to carry you. I'll take Hermione."

"Will you?" Snape said archly. "And I carry Mister Weasley...?"

"Because I chose first," Remus grinned. "Come on, Hermione." She leaned into him and the two of them disappeared in a bang.

It took a while longer for Ron and Severus to disapparate. Ron felt as though he were delivering himself into the very hands of the Grim Reaper as Snape's arms wrapped around him. When the disorientation caused by his apparation cleared, Ron could see Hermione and Remus talking and laughing comfortably, two adults at ease with one another. Ron found this a very discouraging sight. Once again he felt out of his depth, though he took some solace in the thought that all four of his group were here because he had suggested the destination.

Snape knew exactly where he wanted to go, and his three companions fell into line behind him as he strode purposely through the bustling hospital. They soon came to a crowded station where a number of care givers were trading information about various patients. "Pardon me," Snape interjected at the first pause in the conversation. "Have you seen Harry Potter?"

Doris Runcorn had been a nurse at Saint Mungo's for over twenty years. She was used to the hospital being understaffed, overburdened with patients, and crowded to capacity. She had developed a talent for carrying on several conversations at once while she worked. When she heard Snape's question, she didn't even look at him before she automatically replied, "No Press." Then she did look around to see four people, perplexed by her comment, none of whom looked like reporters. "Oh," she offered by way of apology. "Pilgrims or other?"

"We're Harry's friends... and teachers... from school," Hermione volunteered.

Doris sighed. "I haven't heard that one yet," she said, clearly exasperated. "I hope you understand, we aren't even allowing anyone in to the Mental Health wing unless they are here to visit a relative. We can't have any more upset. It's bad for the patients."

Remus was about to ask the nurse what she was talking about, but at that moment, a group of angry people came storming down the corridor, complaining to everyone in the area.

"You can't keep everyone out forever!" shouted one man.

"Quiet!" A nurse commanded him. "Don't you realize this is a hospital?"

"We're here to see the Truth!" A woman declaimed, only to be shushed by several workers.

A distinguished looking man in elegant robes, with long, grey hair falling to his waist, stopped to scold Doris. "We are legitimate Pilgrims," he said confidently. "The Boy Who Lived became The Man Who Saved and now is transforming himself once again, most likely into the Spirit Who Heals. We - and all people, everywhere - have a right to know what is going on. If you insist on keeping him behind locked doors, your efforts are doomed to failure."

"We are not keeping anyone behind locked doors," Nurse Runcorn insisted. "We do keep some doors locked to keep disruptive influences away from our ongoing treatment of our patients. You are one of those. Please go away, and let us get on with returning people to health. If Harry Potter, or anyone else, wishes to speak with you, I'm sure they will find you when they leave the hospital. Now go."

Snape shepherded his companions back in the direction of the lobby. "Remus. Take these children to the waiting room. I don't know what Potter has done, but it seems to have caused trouble already. I believe I can use an official title to gain access to the area, but I will have to go alone." Snape disappeared down an intersecting corridor. Remus took the protesting children with him in search of the waiting room.

When Severus arrived at the secured door to the Mental Health portion of the facility, he presented himself to the orderly on duty. "I am Severus Snape, official potions maker to the Ministry. I believe you are expecting me."

"This about the Longbottom thing?" the orderly asked, practically ignoring Snape as he kept his eye on a group of people Severus presumed to be more 'pilgrims.'

"Frank and Alice are a special concern of mine," Snape improvised smoothly, and the orderly unlocked the portal, ushering Snape through and slamming the door behind him before the suddenly agitated group of waiting people could storm through.

It wasn't hard for Snape to find what he was looking for. Every worker in the wing was trying to catch a glimpse of it as they went about their duties. Snape turned a corner into the area he was looking for, and stopped in shock.

The scene would have been an utterly commonplace sight consisting of a visitor on a chair between two patient beds... except for the glow. Harry and both Longbottoms were shining with a brilliant white light, and there was a globe of golden light surrounding them. As Snape watched, workers were putting up curtains to block some of the glare from spilling out into the rest of the wing. He noticed that all of the workers were very careful to avoid the half-sphere of golden light, and he soon saw why. When one man, trying to support a curtain rod, stepped into the glowing area, he immediately abandoned his work and wandered away, only to return a few seconds later, his face flushed a bright red. "Sorry," he said, and went back to work - this time staying scrupulously away from the odd illumination.

Snape could not think of anything to do, so he waited and watched. The curtain went up, the workers tugged on it to test how well it would stand up to being bumped and brushed against in the course of a normal day, and just as the whole group was about ready to leave, the illumination flared in a flash that left a floating afterimage in Snape's eyes, then faded away entirely.

"Healer!" called one of the workers, and Snape moved forward with authority, as though he were the proper respondent to the call. He was astonished at the change behind the curtain.

"Frank?" Alice Longbottom said, sitting up, yawning and rubbing her eyes. "Frank? I think something bad has happened."

"It did," her husband replied. "But I believe it's done with, now."

The two Longbottoms sat up and climbed out of bed facing one another. As their eyes met, they very clearly recognized one another. Their faces exhibited a gamut of expressions as the couple realized that they had, indeed, been the victims of something bad, but that for them, it was now over. They began to step toward each other, arms out to embrace. Then they both looked down.

"Neville!" Alice screamed. "Son!" Frank shouted. Both fell to their knees, lifting the boy who lay limp on the ground at their feet.

"That is not Neville," Snape announced. Both Longbottoms looked up at him, shocked to find anyone else there. "Neville is fine. That is Harry Potter."

Frank looked at the boy whose head he cradled. "Who?"

"He's been helping you," Snape explained. "Neville is at school. We'll call him."

Frank and Alice hugged the boy they held. Though both were relieved that it was not their son who lay helpless on the floor, they both needed the comfort of offering an embrace, and both wished they could do something to help this unknown boy. Frank looked up at Snape, his face showing his worry. "It has been this long, hasn't it? Our son is as old as this boy, isn't he?"

Alice looked up as well. Both waited for the answer: how much time had they lost? "Neville is a fine, healthy lad and a genius in herbology. He is as old as Harry, here.

"Help us," Alice said, and Severus lifted Harry into the bed that had been Frank's. A mediwizard burst through the curtain, saw Snape, drew breath to order him away, then froze as he saw the Longbottoms standing together.

"It has been a long while, I know," Frank said. "We owe you a great deal," Alice added.

In the waiting room, an orderly tapped Remus on the shoulder and asked him to bring his friends and follow. At the secured entrance to the mental ward, the group of pilgrims were very agitated, demanding entrance. When Ron, Hermione and Remus were shown through the door, the pilgrims nearly rioted. Beefy security personnel arrived and began to force the group out of the hospital. Ron looked over his shoulder just before the security door closed. 'When I used to think of Saint Mungo's Mental Ward, that's what I thought it would all be like,' he mused, and was surprised to see the quiet, organized activity of the real thing all around him once he had passed through the secure door.

By the time the three visitors made it to where Snape waited, Alice and Frank Longbottom had been taken elsewhere by their supervising mediwizard. The gawkers had departed and Snape seemed to stand alone near a bed chosen at random. Then Remus saw Harry, lying senseless. The werewolf stood uncomfortably, staring down at the boy. "Oh. Poor lad." Ron was next. Involuntarily, he leaned away from the bed and shuffled his feet. "Harry. What's happened to you?"

Hearing that, Hermione knew what to expect. She pushed past the awkwardly standing men and sat on the edge of the bed, taking Harry's hand in hers. "Hello," she began casually. "It's been a while since we've talked." Ron watched for a few minutes, confused as to what she hoped to accomplish, as Herimione described her class schedule, talked about flying as a passenger on Ron's broom and told the story of searching for Harry's house in Godric's Hollow. When she began to outline the correct grooming procedure to follow for a cat-kniezel cross, Ron lost interest, watched the staff dealing with other patients for a while, and was completely surprised when he heard Harry's groggy, rasping voice requesting, "Get me out of here, please."

"You'll go nowhere like that, young man," Snape informed him. "If the staff sees us carrying you out, there will be more questions than we will be able to answer in a week's time. Stand up, walk under your own power, clear your eyes and be able to speak for yourself or you'll find yourself committed as a patient here."

"Oh," Harry said sadly, eyes drooping closed. "I was hoping that Hermione could carry me home." Then he glanced up from under his lashes and couldn't help himself from laughing at the looks on his friends' faces. "Seriously, I will need some help getting along. I'm not sure I can stand on my own right now."

"Put him in the middle, and let's shuffle out in a bunch," Ron urged. "This lot look to have had enough of visitors for now. If we get moving, they'll be glad to see our backs."

Ron's plan was put into effect immediately, Remus and Snape holding Harry up at either side, Hermione taking the lead, and Ron bringing up the rear, trying not to look too obvious about being ready to catch Harry if he fell backward. With Snape making the appropriate official sounds at the security exit, the quintet was out of the mental ward swiftly, and had made their egress from the hospital within minutes.

The group found a bench on which Harry could rest, and Remus gently asked, "Harry, can you...?"

Harry waved away any suggestion of his doing anything. "I couldn't cast Lumos on a forest fire," he said. "I'm tired, I'm sick, and I keep forgetting things."

"Forgetting things?" Snape prompted.

"Yes," Harry sighed. "Like who I am, and what I've been doing for the past dozen years or so. I think... it's kind of like getting hit in the head with a bludger. I'll be all right in a little while... or I won't, one of the two."

"Maybe you should have stayed at the hospital," Ron worried.

"No, I need rest," Harry insisted. "And I don't need to be checked into the hospital right before..." He stared blankly for a moment. "What was the big thing we were doing?"

"The election?" Remus suggested.

"Right! Oh, no. When is it? The election. When do we...?"

"Day after tomorrow," Remus reassured him. "We have plenty of time."

"Good thing," Harry said, relieved. "I need to recover. You know, I was starting to think that I was pretty strong there during the past couple of days. But the Longbottoms... they're TOUGH!"

"I never doubted it," Snape interrupted. "We need to get you home. Mister Weasley, wait here. Remus, bring Miss Granger. I'll take Harry. And I'll be back for you, Mister Weasley."

Ron swallowed hard. He felt as though he'd been given an appointment with Death himself.

-

Ambrose Garamond picked a corrected ballot off one of the shipping stacks. He held it out to Devan Gorseheather. "Perfect!" Ambrose proclaimed in the face of Devan's disapproving look. 'Really,' Ambrose thought, 'it nearly is perfect. If you look at it sideways, and don't pay too much attention to the candidates for Minister, it's really quite good.'

"This will have to do," Gorseheather decreed. "We're out of time, anyway. Ship Them!"

-

"Motion denied!" With the bang of a gavel, Lucius Malfoy's last attempt to delay his trial was thwarted. His legal team had hoped to postpone the finding of a verdict and - most importantly - the sentencing portion of the proceedings until after election day. They had heard interesting things regarding what Harry Potter had said about the government's treatment of their client, and had believed that, if Potter could win before sentence was passed, the Malfoy family might have a chance of recovering some of their confiscated wealth. Apparently, that was not to be.

Court will recess in order to allow the Panel of Judges to come to a verdict. In the event of a finding of the defendant's guilt, sentence will be passed immediately. A time was named, some two hours from that moment, and the gavel fell. Last recess for the Malfoy trial.

"...damned shame we can't use dementors," one of the justices was complaining as the panel entered the deliberation chamber. "Never trusted the things in the first place, but I hadn't expected them to desert their posts altogether."

"They must have been part of this whole Voldemort ballsup," another judge opined. "They'll be angry at being cheated of their big chance to take part in the violence the Death Eaters had planned - and after they went and blew their cover, too."

"If one can believe the news, that Harry Potter fellow ought to keep someone on payroll full time to watch his back... and two more for each side."

"The dementors are cowardly," another jurist insisted. "They won't go for any hard targets, at least not right away. And they'll be hungry. They feed on misery. And that's how we'll catch them. They'll attack a series of helpless, miserable people to feast upon. And we'll catch them in the act of doing so."

"And do what? How do you deal with a dementor? There are charms to drive them away or keep them at bay. But what happens when you want to capture one? Or kill one? Do they die? Does anyone know?"

"I'll bet Voldemort knew. We'll be wishing we could ask him before we have the last of the dementors taken care of."

"Or we could all troop down to Inhuman Resources and attempt to obtain the list of dementors who have sought temporary work with us."

"If Inhuman Resources operates anything like our Human Resources Department, they'll have kept the temporary workers waiting in vain for any word from us - possibly for years."

"But they'll have lost the dementor applicants' contact information, anyway."

"That's hardly our problem now," a judge growled in annoyance. "Our problem now is that the full-time, permanent dementors have deserted their duties and we can no longer use them." Then, seeing that the entire panel had taken their seats, he exclaimed, "Oh!" and looked slightly abashed, as though he had violated a minor rule of etiquette. "I take it that we are agreed the verdict is guilty?" he asked nervously.

A general murmuring accompanied unanimous nods. The judge who had asked looked relieved to have confirmed everyone's agreement. "Good. So - without dementors - how do we kill the bastard?"

The court reconvened, the accused stood, the judges declared him guilty and placed black cloths over their wigs. The chief among the judges read the sentence. "Lucius Malfoy, for your crimes of treason, your association with and your funding of terrorist organizations; your property - as listed in the summary, attached to the court's official findings - are forfeit. For your crimes of murder with special circumstances, you will be taken to Montgomery Chamber at Azkaban tomorrow morning at six o'clock a.m. There you will be administered Dormorlethe until you are dead."

"What!" Lucius stood, eyes blazing, fists clenched, his barrister dangling by one hand from his right shoulder, the result of a pathetically ineffective attempt to restrain his client from rising. "I am no muggle philosopher, to drink a cup of kindness for the convenience of my cowardly captors, who are too fearful to slaughter me properly after stealing my family's worldly goods."

"There was no mention of your drinking anything," the sentencing judge replied calmly. "The Dormorlethe will be administered, and you will fall into a deep, forgetful sleep before expiring. May the fate of your soul be a merciful one." The judges bowed their heads over their clasped hands, then removed their black wig-coverings.

"You may steal my property!" Lucius raved. "I have no doubt you will take my life! But Dormorlethe... to take my memory, my self... that is monstrous! It is contemptible! It is..." His face twisted as he prepared to hurl his final, ultimate, insult. "Un-British!"

"You would prefer the dementors, I'm sure," drawled the oldest judge on the panel. "Your solicitor might file suit to force us to use them. He might be successful if you simply tell us where they are. They are your confederates' allies, after all."

"Taunting the condemned?" Lucius sneered, regaining some of his composure. "You are even lower than you have previously shown yourself to be."

"The condemned is allowed a statement after sentencing," the youngest of the judges reminded his peers. The sentencing judge nodded toward Lucius.

Malfoy had once again assumed his detached, sardonic demeanor. "Tomorrow morning?" he mused. "There is only one explanation for that timing. You are genuinely afraid that a boy will be elected in place of the incumbent Minister. You fear that, if you don't grab it all right now, some of my money might escape your clutches. You are fearful, greedy thieves, every one of you. And how does it happen that you are afraid of a boy? Because you have misgoverned this kingdom so disastrously that a majority of your citizens want to throw the current government out. And that does not apply only to the Minister. The anger and resentment goes deep, and is spread wide. Even with my wealth to prop you up for a little longer, you will all face the wrath of an angry populace soon. I have nothing more to say."

Lucius' legal team accompanied him out of court, assuring him that the sentence he had received was flawed, and would likely be overturned before the next day's dawn. Lucius paid them no attention at all.

-

The next day, queasy though he felt, Harry forced himself out of bed to take care of something he felt he needed to accomplish before the election. He washed thoroughly, dressed in his best robe, made sure his shoes shined, told Remus, Snape, Hermione and Ron that he would be back soon, visualized a grove of trees in a peaceful neighborhood, and apparated to France.

He was nervous as he knocked on Narcissa's door. He had disappeared without a word, and had made quite a splashy public reappearance without contacting her. He hoped she wouldn't be too offended to listen to his offer.

He knocked at the Malfoys' door, and was about to turn away when the lady of the house finally answered. Harry stood speechless, staring. He had always accepted the description of Narcissa as 'beautiful.' He had never been blind to her striking curves or her sculpted features. But it was not until that moment that Harry finally saw Narcissa as beautiful. She was standing in the doorway without makeup, her hair tied back in a scarf, wearing a plain cotton dress, holding a cleaning rag, slightly disheveled from work. As he stared, Harry realized why her appearance was so moving at that moment. She was, for the first time in Harry's view, not posing. Her carefully choreographed placement of every fingertip, the way she automatically put herself in the most flattering position, using light, furniture and even other people to create a composition for maximum effect on the viewer... all of that was totally absent. What he was seeing right then was a real woman, occupied with everyday, unexciting work that was nonetheless important to her, taking time out from her labors to answer her door. The vision was so gorgeous he nearly wept.

And his heart caught in his throat in the next moment, when she smiled and her eyes lit up with genuine warmth. "Harry! It's good to see you. Come in. I'm glad you made it. Another few days and I'd have been gone."

"Gone? Where?" Harry walked through the entryway and nearly stumbled on a pile of boxes.

"Indonesia. I have a job, and - with any luck - a new career." She laughed lightly, and amended, "Or, I should say, my old career in a new setting. I'll be entertaining clients trying to win Indonesian business for my new employers. Essentially, I'll be hosting parties at which everyone else but me negotiates the actual business. But, that's an old story for me. I'll be able to do quite well at it."

"But... uh..." Harry was having trouble adjusting to the unexpected turn of events. He had come prepared to debate the particulars of Narcissa's role in his new administration. He hadn't expected to find her already employed elsewhere. He was further distracted as his hostess directed him to a chair and he found himself sitting among stacks of packed boxes. Narcissa perched on the couch, sharing her seat with a suitcase. "I had... um... an idea that you might... ah... work for... me. When I become Minister. After tomorrow's election. If... if I win, that is."

"Thank you," Narcissa said. "I had thought you might." At Harry's look of surprise, she explained, "I have been keeping up with the news lately. It's a lot less painful to do so, now that I'll be leaving Europe altogether... and working under another name, with a safely artificial history. I won't be 'Narcissa Black' any longer. For safety's sake, I'm not even sure what my new name will be... I won't know until I'm on my way to Indonesia."

"You shouldn't have to worry about keeping yourself hidden. Especially if I win the Ministership."

"Even if you win, you won't be taking office tomorrow. And even as Minister, you won't be able to micro-manage every facet of the government. There will be an auror, or a judge... or someone... who thinks I should be punished for Lucius' behavior. It's not worth the risk."

"But if you're working in international business, it's only a matter of time before someone recognizes you," Harry protested.

Narcissa grinned wickedly. "I'm sure someone will make something of that," she said with a slow wink. "I dread the 'Exclusive Photos' that will surely appear in Witch Weekly. Their story should be entertaining, at least: long lost twin separated at birth, something like that. But, as tasteless as they are, I don't really mind the magazines like those. To them, the interest... the profit... is in the purely fantasy stories. One reason I always hated the Daily Prophet was that they wanted to have enough truth in their nonsense that they could claim to be legitimate journalists. Some of their people harassed Lucius... and me... several times. Very annoying."

This conversation was not going at all as Harry had planned. Without thinking, he blurted out, "Where's Draco?"

Narcissa smiled, and this time her expression was not sarcastic at all. The gentleness in her face spoke of the genuine love she held for her son. "He's living at school, now. He objected to it when I first brought it up, and I guessed that he had a girlfriend. But he very suddenly warmed to the idea, so I believe he has several of them, now."

Harry didn't follow that logic at all. "Huh?"

Narcissa waved away his concern. "Don't worry about it. I have a feeling that, especially after tomorrow - whether you win or lose - you won't have to worry about balancing romantic assignations the way the rest of us do. You'll be the Great Harry Potter. Girls will only expect to be able to have a small sliver of your time. And they'll probably understand that you're dating several different women at once." She stopped speaking and looked Harry directly in the eye. "Do you have friends?" The question was delivered intensely, demanding a complete answer.

Luckily for Harry, the answer was easy. "Yes. I do. Two, my own age. At least three adults. You are one of those. I hope you consider yourself my friend. I know you helped me a lot. And I have become very close to Remus and Snape..." Narcissa laughed, and Harry looked a question at her.

"No one... absolutely no one calls that man by his given name. I'll bet his mother called him the very same thing." She put on a stern expression, shook her forefinger and scolded, "Eat your green beans, Snape..." Something in the image struck her as hilarious, and she laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks as Harry stood by, smiling politely. Narcissa sighed, wiped her eyes and said, "It's good to be going." She looked away for a moment, and visibly fought to control her expression. "You'll meet thousands of people once you're Minister. Remember to keep your good friends close, and keep the number of people you truly trust very small." Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "I know about Lucius," she explained, not meeting Harry's eyes. "And I know what you've been saying about the government seizure of our property. Thank you for the kind words. But the sentence has been handed down. I have to credit you, Harry. You frightened them very badly. Lucius will be executed before the polls open tomorrow."

"What?" Harry barked, leaping up from his seat. He waved his arms about as he blustered, "They can't! That was one of the things... If they do that now... I had already stated that I was..."

"Harry," Narcissa said soothingly. "You weren't going to try to save his life, were you?"

"No," Harry admitted immediately. "But you... your home, your money..."

"I'll be fine," Narcissa reassured him. "And, as hard as it is to admit it, I think Draco needs a lesson or two in humility, as well. I think that living on a limited budget for the remainder of his sixth and seventh years at school will help him see how the mechanics of life operate a little more clearly than he could have seen when he had an unlimited allowance to grease the necessary wheels. We'll do well. We have some resources of our own beyond the money we once took for granted."

"I wish I could have had you close by during the next few years," Harry said sadly. "You would have made a great cabinet member."

"Don't you see how wrong that would be?" Narcissa asked, genuinely amazed at how innocent Harry remained. "You make a big deal about the government's mistreatment of me, and then put me into a cabinet office? Think of how the voters would see that. Suddenly, your principled argument against an unfair policy looks more like a cheap attempt to grab some money back out of the State coffers on behalf of your personal friend. No, that would be bad. And if I were to be accused of Death Eater associations, the very basis on which you were declared a hero becomes suspect. You'll have a hard enough time explaining your relationship with Professor Snape."

"He refuses to appear in public," Harry admitted. "He said much the same thing you just did."

"And he's right," Narcissa insisted, waiting for Harry to nod in agreement before continuing. "The Professor will have a hard time finding his own way," she said sympathetically. "He needs to teach in order to be happy, I believe. And serving as Head of House for Slytherin was very close to his heart. If he cannot return to Hogwarts, he will suffer for it." She brightened and very deliberately changed her posture and voice to shake off the gloom that had settled over their conversation. "I, on the other hand, have a tremendous opportunity awaiting. I will be living in exotic foreign lands, meeting intelligent and successful people and getting started in a career with a company that has tremendous resources and limitless potential. I will be reporting directly to the owner, so I won't merely be sent to Asia and forgotten. All in all, my own prospects look very positive. I'm excited."

"Oh. Well... good," Harry said, making as if to leave. "I still think I need to make some sort of protest over Lucius' sentence being carried out tomorrow. I'll have to call the government cowardly for trying to close the books on their case without my involvement, or something along those lines. Professor Snape will have some ideas about what I should say, I'll bet. Uh... say 'hi' to... I mean... tell Draco I was here, and tell him I... wished him well."

"So it is going to be Harry the Diplomat from now on," Narcissa teased.

"Oh, well, I mean, if I've already made a public statement about the government's seizure of your assets and then they go and..."

"No." Narcissa stopped Harry's babbling with a word. "I wasn't talking about your statement to the press about Lucius' case. Mothers aren't all clueless, you know. I am quite aware that you and my son have not gotten on at all well for the past five years and more. I appreciate you leaving a word for him. And that attitude will get you farther in life than will an endless series of head-on combats. Genuine diplomacy is a good habit to take up, the sooner the better. Good luck to you, Mister Potter. When the polls close tomorrow, I hope you have thoroughly kicked Cornelius Fudge's ass."

-

Harry apparated to the Prophet offices and made a statement to a bored reporter, who didn't really care what the candidate had to say, since the stories for the election day edition of the paper were already written, and the next big news would be about who had won. Still, Harry's rather wordy, intellectual sounding criticism of the court for deciding the Malfoy case without taking his own statements into account appeared on election day morning somewhere in the Daily Prophet's front section. But few people read it because everyone who might have done so had to get to the polls and vote in addition to going to work, or school, and whatever else they had to do that day. It probably wouldn't have made any difference, anyway. By election day morning, most people in wizarding Britain had made up their minds about who they were going to vote for.

-

Dormorlethe was an obscure poison, seldom used by anyone in the last four or five hundred years. There were many concoctions that were more immediately lethal, many that were more difficult to detect, and a very large number that were more painful in their action. Dormorlethe was rather mild in comparison to many of those. It took a long time to work, several hours on average. An antidote could be given at almost any time during those several hours, which would completely reverse the effects of the poison, leaving the intended victim perfectly healthy. And, of course, anyone intending to make his victim suffer as much as possible would prefer the agonies inflicted by Briarbane or Barbsolven to the peaceful forgetfulness imparted by Dormorlethe. But the Ministry had no interest in causing their prisoner pain. Quite the opposite: they wished to make his passing away as painless as they could. Nor did they fear that he would be reached by anyone with an antidote during the critical time between administration of the fatal dose and the moment Malfoy's body ceased to live. He would be under auror guard as well as medical supervision for the entire time. The official concern was concentrated on two things: making sure that Lucius actually died from the poison, and preventing his return as a ghost. The dreamy, amnesia-inducing operation of the chosen agent was perfectly suited to allowing the condemned to slip peacefully into death without the sudden, violent trauma associated with most executions, thus preventing his spectral reappearance. And, once the condemned's body had expired, there was no known antidote that could bring him back to life. Dormorlethe, therefore, was perfect, and suited all of the Ministry's requirements admirably.

Lucius Malfoy, as he had promised, refused to drink the preparation containing the poison, so it was injected into his veins. Malfoy struggled as much as possible, attempting to turn his execution into the kind of violent event that would assure his ghostly return. Unfortunately, the aurors tasked with the labor of injecting him were very adept at restraining individuals without harming them, and the injection went flawlessly, without any more than a slight stinging in Lucius' skin to testify to its having been done. The injected poison worked even more quickly than it would have if it had been ingested, and soon, Lucius could not recall why it was he was lying in bed with so many serious looking individuals observing him. A little while later, he could not even recognize the expressions on those surrounding him as serious, and a few seconds after that, he could not have found words to describe what he was seeing at all. Familiar terms such as 'nose,' 'eyes,' or 'mouth' would have seemed like a foreign language to him... if he had cared to think about his situation at all. As it was, he was so comfortable, it was so relaxing to simply lie there and feel the pull of gravity drawing him into the soft bedding, that he wasn't interested in talking about it in the least. Soon, he fell asleep, whatever tension he had brought with him into the Montgomery Chamber completely transformed into mindless restfulness. Whatever happened would be completely acceptable to him. Calmly, entirely relaxed, he died.

He was pronounced dead, and his bed rolled through the hallway to the embalmer's workshop.

The man who had, during his trial, been characterized as the most dangerous Death Eater in Britain was no more.

-

One of the many odd characteristics of Harry's decidedly odd candidacy for Minister was the fact that he had no election day headquarters in which to publicly follow the returns as his supporters cheered for him. The reporter who had been so bored by Harry's statement on the previous evening kicked himself for publishing it in that morning's edition instead of holding on to it for the next day's paper. At least he would have had something. As it was, there was the expected media circus at the Leaky Cauldron, where Cornelius Fudge held forth, preaching about his confidence to a crowd of confirmed sycophants as reporters and photographers looked on. The other candidate was nowhere to be found.

It wasn't as though Harry were hiding. It was just that no one knew where to look for him. In Godric's Hollow, a tiny group of three individuals - the candidate and his inner circle - were gathered, listening to returns on a small radio tuned to the Wizarding Wireless Network. Snape laughed often that day as he thought of the thousands of politically apathetic entertainment seekers tuning in only to be frustrated by the day-long election coverage.

The three tense listeners did not even have the company of Ron and Hermione, who had been hard pressed to get back to Hogwarts before they were missed. Remus and Snape had helped the two students by apparating them to the outskirts of the Hogwarts grounds, but even though that kept both of the Gryffindors from getting into trouble, Ron was unhappy about leaving his broomstick behind. The 'stick was simply too much to drag along during an assisted apparation, in which Ron himself, and all his clothing, was essentially dead weight that Snape had to carry along. Harry cheerfully thanked Ron for the 'loan' of his broom, but got only a sullen 'Yeah, right,' in return.

The morning's election reports sounded bad, mostly due to a large number of people who were interviewed as they left the polls claiming that they had voted to re-elect Fudge. Many of the comments these early respondents made as they answered reporters' questions were snide and highly insulting - not only to Harry, but to anyone who might have considered voting for him. Harry felt bad listening to them, but Remus predicted that those comments would backfire, and motivate more voters to get out and cast their ballots - not necessarily for Harry, but against Fudge and his snotty supporters. Remus' predictions seemed to turn out, for as noon approached, many more people participating in the exit interviews voiced their support for Harry, and made comments that directly referred to the earlier insults by the Fudge backers.

But even as Harry's confidence rose while the exit poll percentages showed him essentially tied with the incumbent, the radio commentators began to remind their listeners that exit polls had been notoriously misleading in the past, and that no one should take these preliminary indications as official results.

A little after noon, during a break from the non-stop exit polling and discussions about the other races and measures on that day's ballot, Harry was shocked to hear an interview with a group claiming to support him - though their representative was careful to explain that they were not 'officially sanctioned' in any way. Their contention was that Harry's candidacy had been illegally adversely affected because his name on the ballot appeared smaller than any other candidate's name, and that it had been placed between Cornelius Fudge's name and the heading describing the office for which the candidates listed below were contending. In short, Harry had been squeezed in, and looked like an afterthought - or a mistake. "This is a blatant attempt on the part of the Fudge government to discourage voters from supporting Harry Potter by trying to make Harry Potter's name look somehow inferior," the group's spokesman stated.

"There you go," Snape purred sarcastically. "When you lose, you can challenge the results immediately."

Remus scowled at the other man. "I'm more concerned that Fudge will try to say Harry had some special advantage due to that ballot. Fudge won't hesitate to stoop to filing a lawsuit over it. He'll have plenty of time once he's out of office."

Harry saw the whole controversy in the most positive light. "That's one more thing I have to make sure never happens when I'm in office. I'll make it a promise: Fair Ballots for All."

A little later, when the long day had grown boring for all three, Remus asked Harry, "When are you going to go cast your ballot?"

"I can't," Harry admitted, blushing. "I had already dropped out of public view by my birthday. I never registered to vote. What about you?"

"Once it became public knowledge that I had been infected by lycanthropy, I was disenfranchised. Werewolves have no voting privileges in this country. I can't vote either. Professor?"

"Aurors lurk outside every polling place," Snape sneered, "ostensibly looking for disruptions of the proper electoral process. Actually, they're waiting to grab those who have avoided apprehension. They avoid doing any real police work by waiting for each person to 'Clearly state his name and address,' as every voter is instructed to do upon entering the polling place. I still do not wish to be questioned officially quite yet. Therefore, I will not be going to vote today."

The three looked at one another, all appreciating the irony. Here was an unlikely challenger to an established incumbent; a challenger who needed every vote he could get - and neither the candidate himself nor either of his closest supporters could vote for him.

The day wore on interminably. Harry decided many times that day to ignore the election coverage and wait for the final count to be announced. But invariably, he drifted back to the radio, listening to the projected percentages, hanging on every word the analysts had to offer. Well after their usual dinner time, Remus made some food, and insisted that Harry sit down and eat. Both Harry and Snape shoveled food into their mouths mechanically, their attention riveted to the wireless broadcast. Remus was annoyed, and pointed out that the analysts had been saying the same things over and over for more than an hour. Harry had to agree, but couldn't tear his attention away from the repetitive coverage. Listening to one analyst babble about the same exit polls the last analyst had just finished reviewing was like eating salted potato crisps. It was easy to ignore them entirely, but once one had been consumed, Harry felt compelled to finish all of them.

Just as all three listeners were about to turn the radio off and hide the receiver to prevent themselves from becoming mesmerized by the same stories repeated yet again, the first real ballot counts came in. The polls had closed, the counters were working, and the results were official now, not simply the speculations of exit pollsters. The radio stayed on. Remus sighed, cleared away the dishes and made coffee. It would be a long time before enough ballots were counted for the totals to be definitive.

-

At Hogwarts, student interest in that day's election was higher than had been the case for any previous vote in history. Dumbledore authorized a display in the Great Hall to help everyone follow the returns. He insisted on only two requirements: that the scoreboard be entirely magical, with no mechanical components whose rough edges might harm the Hall's furnishings... and that the results of every race and every proposal on the ballot be included. In order to avoid unduly influencing any of the student's votes, the display would not be activated until after the polls closed. It would not display any early predictions or projected results. Only the actual ballot count would be reported, as results from each polling place became official.

A lunchtime field trip into Hogsmeade for students who were registered to vote had been organized, and turnout was extremely good. After dinner, as the election-results display came to life, filling the Great Hall with its powerful glow, many sixth year students and all of the seventh years carried their ballot stubs with them to show that they had taken part in the democratic process. A few students had decided to avoid the Hall and not follow the election results with their peers. But every single Gryffindor in the school was present to cheer on one of their own.

There wasn't a lot to cheer about in the early hours of the vote count. Fudge and Potter stood at about fifty-fifty, with Fudge drawing slightly more support in the large cities - especially London - and Potter doing slightly better in more rural areas. There were a number of write-ins, mostly as jokes or protest votes. Lucius Malfoy showed up on a number of ballots. Members of the Fudgecicles were popular choices. And a surprising number of people wrote in the name of Wilhelmus Pitt, the conservative candidate who had challenged Fudge in the last election. But all together, the write-ins accounted for fewer than two percent of the vote. As midnight neared, the number of votes counted for Potter continued to rise quickly as those for Fudge rose more and more slowly. By one o'clock in the morning, as the returns showed Fudge with just under forty percent of the vote, and Potter with nearly sixty percent, a red flickering began to appear next to the incumbent Minister's name, in anticipation of a certain statement from him. But Cornelius Fudge refused to concede the election.

-

There are many advantages to using magic to help people accomplish simple, repetitive chores. Speed is one. And hundreds of years of evidence have shown that accuracy is another. A very complex magical spell helped to tally the results of wizarding Britain's balloting. By a little after two in the morning, the ballots had all been counted. By two-thirty a.m., Cornelius Fudge was demanding a recount.

"It's all the fault of that Dam... er... improperly prepared ballot!" he shouted at the press, who still awaited his concession at the Leaky Cauldron. "The magical counters couldn't read the unevenly placed names properly. As Minister, I am authorizing a complete recount - by hand, by humans - of every ballot cast in this election!"

A chorus of 'boo's filled the Great Hall at Hogwarts as disappointed students went off to bed. They were already up far too late, and most knew that they would pay for their indulgence by being groggy when they awoke for their next classes. It would have been worth it to have been able to cheer Harry's victory. As it was, the entire portion of the student body that had followed the reporting all night was extremely annoyed, and felt that Fudge had cheated them of their rightful celebration.

As Harry stood to go to bed, he felt the coffee sloshing in his stomach. He grimaced as he leaned his weight on a chair back. "How long?" he asked, mumbling from sleepiness.

"At least three to four times as long as the count required with magical assistance," Snape assured him. "Get some sleep. I'll wake you if anything significant happens."

-

As soon as he was out of sight of the reporters at the Leaky Cauldron, Fudge rushed to the Ministry and directly to the office of the Supervisor of Elections, Chad Gerrymander. The elections official was not pleased to see the Minister.

"A recount, Cornelius? You realize that your request for a recount reflects directly upon me. It's my reputation that's being damaged here."

"Your reputation?" Fudge demanded, puffing out his chest and rising onto his toes in the way a fighting bird will do to try to intimidate an opponent. Unfortunately, the Minister's language skills seemed to have regressed to a bird-like level as well, since all he could think of to follow his first question was a repeat of the same, "Your reputation?"

"Yes, mine," Chad replied coldly. "You have already lost. Don't look at me that way! Do you really think we miscounted thousands of ballots? The results were far from unanimous, I'll give you that, but the difference between you and Potter is twenty percent of the participating voters. And this election enjoyed a good turnout. A hands-only recount will take until the middle of the day tomorrow, and you'll still have lost. And I will have suffered the humiliation of conducting a recount during my supervision of an election. Twenty percent, Cornelius. Even if every counter blundered more horribly than has ever happened in the past, there's no chance you'll even get close."

"I could," Fudge suggested slyly, "if we had trustworthy vote counters."

"Cornelius," Gerrymander sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose, "what are you asking of me?"

"Of you? Nothing," Fudge reassured him. "I simply say that if we had... trustworthy... counters on the job, there would be nothing like a twenty percent difference between Potter and myself."

"Are you asking me to throw the election for you?"

"What? No! All I'm saying is that if we had counters that we could trust..."

"We?" Gerrymander's voice was cold as he stared directly into Fudge's eyes.

"Yes, we!" Fudge insisted. "You... me... everyone who has been loyal to this government."

"So loyalty gets rewarded while challenge gets... what? Undercounted?"

"The magic failed!" Cornelius wailed. "Potter's name was entered strangely and it got counted far too often. I'll bet there are thousands of ballots that showed a result of one vote for Potter and one vote for Fudge!"

"Then there would be a total number of votes for Minister much higher than the total number of ballots counted," Chad pointed out reasonably. "That has not happened. The total number of ballots matches the total votes for Minister very closely. In fact, there are fewer votes for Minister than there are total ballots, indicating that some voters cast no vote for Minister at all!"

"Doesn't that seem strange to you?" challenged Fudge.

"How long have you been in politics, Cornelius?" Gerrymander responded disbelievingly. "No, it doesn't seem strange. Every election, there are people who do not cast votes for the top offices. They show up at the polls to vote for the local offices, for people they know, or for issues particularly close to their hearts. I would expect to have at least a few ballots in every national election with no choice for Minister indicated. You know that. Why are you doing this?"

"Because he's a BOY!" the Minister bellowed, out of patience at last. "Does it make sense that sixty percent of good British citizens would vote for a boy who is not qualified to hold the office if he wins it? Don't give me that look... if there's no change in these ridiculously skewed numbers before the recount is finished, the first thing I'm going to do is challenge this result, and the next thing I'm going to do is challenge the qualifications of that boy to hold my office! I know how the system works. I know how to get the proper judge to hear my case. I know how to manipulate the calendar - what does that boy know? Nothing! If you give the election to him, you'll have no government at all! I'll tie this whole thing up in court so tight that no one in the Ministry will be able to do squat! The whole of wizarding Britain will grind to an absolute standstill while the lot of you waste your time until you realize that you can't give the Ministership to a boy not old enough to be out of school, let alone hold the top office in the land! And the point should be noted, Chad... you not only can't give the boy my office because he's not qualified - you can't give it to him because he did not win the election! The votes were miscounted. That is the only possibility!"

"So, you're saying that - despite my polite and thoroughly logical request that you see reason - you are still going to officially ask for a recount of all ballots cast in this election?"

"By hand," Fudge demanded. "Every single one."

There is but one chapter remaining in our tale. Don't miss 'Chapter 22' this story has had scintillating chapter titles, don't you agree? posting early next week.

(Unless you are reading this after the week of 2-28-05, in which case Chapter 22 is probably already posted, and you don't have to wait at all!)


	22. Chapter 22

FINAL CHAPTER

Chapter 22 – Final

Harry slept until noon the next day, but when he stumbled out to the kitchen table for a cup of tea, Snape slowly shook his head. To Harry, it looked as though the potions master hadn't slept all night. The radio had been off most of the time Harry had been asleep, but there were bulletins every hour concerning the election recount in progress, and there had been no announcement of any new results yet. To help take his mind off the interminable waiting, Harry brought up a subject he had been thinking about since Halloween, but could not solve the mystery of.

"Professor? Where is that stone complex of Voldemort's?"

"I don't know," Snape replied with some annoyance. One of the many things that had upset him during his service as a spy had been the blind apparations in response to Voldemort's summonses.

"How did you know where to apparate?"

"Voldemort's summons carried a kind of homing signal. How did you know how to apparate back there once you had left?"

"Once you brought me there, I just..." Harry shrugged. "I returned to where I had been before, that's all."

"Why do you want to know?"

"It's..." Harry caught himself and considered how best to put what he thought. "I don't know whether the site belongs to someone else, whether it's below some important building, or under a street, or beneath some muggle thing, or what. I've been treating it as my own by virtue of having conquered it. But that probably won't stand up if someone with a valid deed comes along and claims the place."

"A good thought," Severus allowed, in a rare compliment. "It sounds as though you are preparing to describe a plan."

Harry shrugged. "One of those slabs has to have been put into place last. I was going to suggest finding it, pulling it out of position, and digging out."

"Think, Mister Potter," Snape drawled disdainfully. "Do you know how far below ground your complex lies?" Harry admitted that he did not. "So you risk burying yourself in the soil you displace as you attempt to dig out."

"What about transfiguring it?" Harry suggested. At Snape's scowl, he expanded on his theme. "If I turned the dirt to air, it wouldn't bury us."

"Once again, I implore you," Snape pleaded dramatically. "Think. Air - even good, fresh air with a proper combination of elements and a fine, invigorating smell - is a gas. Gas is a fluid. Fluids are not constrained into the rigid crystalline structures that grains of sand and other components of soil are. So soil transfigured into gas will immediately, explosively decompress. Out of doors, in a place open to the sky, this is not much of a problem. There is an entire atmosphere into which your transfigured soil can expand. But underground, in a sealed space, when you transfigure the soil in a tiny, cramped tunnel, you run the risk of blowing yourself out of the tunnel and back against the far wall. If you transfigure enough of the stuff at once, you might blow yourself back sufficiently hard to do permanent damage to yourself."

"And what would you do if you wanted to dig yourself out of that complex?" Harry asked sourly.

"Use a probe," Snape replied as though that were the simplest thought in the world. Send a thin rod up through the soil surrounding your complex. That is, assuming your complex is surrounded by soil. What if the surrounding ground is primarily rock? Or molten magma, held at bay by enchantments on the walls? What if your complex is situated directly under a river? You could drown before you find your way to the surface."

"If I am surrounded by rock, I can transfigure a pencil's width of the stone into gas and run a probe through the resulting hole," Harry said smugly. "If I'm beneath a river, I can always seal the opening magically before too much water gets in."

"It sounds as though you are eager to begin," Snape said. "When in your copious free time do you imagine you might have a chance to go to work?"

"After I'm declared the winner of yesterday's election, and before I'm allowed to take office. I won't be sworn in until January fifth. There's plenty of time to solve the mystery of the complex between now and then."

"One would think," Snape mused. "Let us see what today brings first, though, shall we?"

-

At the stroke of one o'clock in the afternoon, Harry was officially declared the winner of the election to the office of Minister of Magic for all Britain. Fudge announced his series of challenges, but he was disturbed at the attitude with which they were received. Many very powerful, very important people were already treating Cornelius Fudge as a figure of fun. His protests were greeted with laughter in public, and disbelief in his own offices.

Harry knew that, with the announcement of his victory, it was time to show himself. Making sure he looked his best, he apparated to the plaza in front of the Ministry. And there, he met his first great political surprise.

Harry's run for office had been admittedly unusual, but he hadn't really been surprised by most of what had happened. He had been delighted at the high voter turnout, he had been excited by the large numbers of votes cast for him, and he had been disgusted at the various whinings from the current Minister - but he hadn't been surprised. He had appreciated the irony of being unable to vote for himself, he had been irritated at being unable to ask either of his closest supporters to vote for him, and he had been frustrated that his election-day headquarters was far too removed from the public eye to serve any public relations function for him - but he hadn't been surprised.

But when he apparated to the plaza in front of the Ministry's main entrance, he was thoroughly shocked. The plaza was packed with people. The instant he appeared, dozens among the crowd spotted him. Within seconds, people throughout the gathering were pointing toward him, and scores of voices shouted congratulations. In the space of two breaths, Harry saw a crowd of hundreds turn toward him, all with their hands outstretched, each one wanting a touch, a handshake... some personal acknowledgement from the new Minister-elect for their very own. Harry took a step backward, then another. He did not want to have to use magic to control this crowd. But as he attempted to make a third retreating step, his heel encountered brick, and he knew that whatever he had struck, whether low curb or medium height planter or tall brick wall, had stopped his flight, and the crowd was about to trample him as well as one another in their excited surge to reach him. Harry raised his hands high and commanded, "Wait!"

The crowd responded. The entire mass of the huge group settled back into a resting position, each individual on his heels, no longer shoving forward into an impossibly tiny space. Harry felt awful. He fully expected to hear shouts of protest, and complaints of magical assault from those gathered closely. But instead, he heard something quite different.

Starting just behind those people standing closest to him, and repeating throughout the gathering, he heard excited whispers all conveying a similar theme. "Did you feel that? That was him! He held us all. It was like a great hug. It was like relaxing into a huge pillow. He kept us all safe. We could have been trampled had he not done that! We are so lucky to be here... to experience this... to be a part of it all... to see history..." and on and on. Those people who were surrounding Harry most closely were not participating in the general discussion - because they were transfixed, gazing at him in adoration.

Harry chose one of the people closest to him, a young witch who had been pushed so close to him that her forehead almost touched his nose. He met her eyes, and said, "Hello."

Harry had intended to ask her how she had come to be here on the plaza, but he never got the chance. Her eyes rolled back until Harry could not see any of her irises at all, and she fainted into the arms of a man standing behind her. Harry thought about what Narcissa had said, that after the election he would be the 'Great Harry Potter' and women would react to him differently. If this is what she had meant, he wished that she had been wrong. Having a woman faint at 'hello' may have been an ego-boost in some different circumstances, but here it was simply ridiculous. He turned to a middle-aged wizard who had been standing immediately to the fainting witch's right, and tried again. "Hello," he said, as neutrally as he could manage.

The wizard's face split in a broad, beaming grin. His eyes lit with a sparkling light akin to madness. Then they rolled back until only the whites were visible, and he fainted into the arms of those behind him. It took three pairs of hands to keep the man from falling to the ground, and once he had been caught, he proved too heavy to hold up. Those who had caught him laid him gently on the pavement, but they had no room to step away and give him room.

Harry really did not want to cast another spell on this crowd, so he pushed his foot back again, dragged his heel upward until he found the upper limit of the brick, and stepped up and back, raising himself above the crowd onto a low wall. He wanted to yell at these people, to tell them to back off and stop crowding, but he recognized that this would be his first public speech to those people who - apparently - were his supporters. So he started gently. Crossing his fingers and hoping that his third attempt did not go as poorly as his first two, he addressed everyone in a loud, clear voice. "Hello."

The crowd made a sound like a huge creature heaving a contented sigh. Harry saw no one else faint, so he took heart from that and continued. "People up close here can't breathe!" He announced. "Please - everyone - move back so these people can have some air!"

There was some shuffling backward in response to his request, but much more noticibly, there were shouts from various parts of the crowd. People called out 'Harry Potter,' and 'The Boy Who Lived,' and 'The Man Who Saved Us!' A few shouted out 'The Spirit Who Heals,' and Harry was baffled by that last appellation. Were these people all trying to prostletize a new religion to him? Was it some faith revolving around a healing spirit? Whatever else they may have been doing, they were still pressing far too closely. Harry raised his hands again... and paused. As his arms had gone up, the crowd had responded with anticipation, like riders on a roller coaster just before the train crested the first rise to begin its exciting descent. Were these crazy people hoping that he would cast a spell on them? Harry hoped not. Instead, he ordered them more forcefully, "Move back!"

The crowd responded, but as Harry studied their faces he saw that they weren't moving in response to being afraid of him, nor were they moving out of concern for their fellows being smothered at the front of the crowd. Most of their faces showed the kind of taunting excitement seen in a child playing a teasing game. Maybe they did want him to cast another spell on them.

Just as Harry was considering casting a spell that would sweep the crowd away from him, they found a way to cooperate well enough to give him some room, and to allow some space to those who had fainted. Harry lowered his hands slowly and called out, "It's good to see you all here!"

The power of the responding cheer nearly knocked him back off the wall. He made sure of his footing and allowed the roar to continue for a while. It was his first ovation, the first time he had received this kind of acclaim from the crowd. It was exciting, it was gratifying... and after he had stood there smiling and waving for a long while, it began to feel really stupid. He raised his hands again, and some of the tumult died away. "How many of you voted for Harry Potter?" It was what he had intended to say immediately after his greeting. But as the words left his mouth, he felt particularly stupid for asking such an obvious question. A crowd of Fudge supporters wouldn't have cheered him like that. Or would they have? Spread out over the plaza, the crowd looked as though all it was concerned with was yelling as much as possible. Harry pondered the nature of crowds as the cheering rose once again, and the roar turned deafening.

He raised his hands for silence once again, and the thunderous ovation dulled to a heavy rumble. "Thank you all for your support. This is a great victory for..." he gave up as the roar drowned out anything else he might have said.

Standing facing the crowd, isolated by the inability to communicate in the din created by the shouting, Harry was surprised again - this time by how quickly he had tired of the crowd's acclaim. As the cheering went on and on, Harry tried once again to speak to an individual. He shouted to a wizard with an extremely long beard, "Who are you?" The wizard was very impressed at having been chosen for conversation with the Minister-elect, but he could not hear anything Harry had said. He cupped his hand behind his ear. Harry tried again, moving his lips in an exaggerated way to try to allow the man to whom he spoke to read his lips. "Who are you?" The wizard, his panic rising as he realized that he was missing his chance to converse with the Minister-elect, shook his head and held a hand behind each of his ears. But the rest of the crowd had finally seen that Harry was shouting, and the cheering quieted just in time for everyone to hear his bellowed question. "WHO ARE YOU?"

"PILGRIMS!" came the response, shouted by hundreds of voices at once. "Potter's Pilgrims," shouted dozens of others, as though that would explain everything. For Harry, it explained nothing. But then, he heard shouts from throughout the crowd - individuals saying something about 'Longbottoms' and 'Saint Mungo's.' With a start, Harry realized that word of his treatment of Frank and Alice had somehow gotten out into public parlance. And that some people now must believe that he had wondrous healing powers. He felt sick. If these people had elected him to be the "Healing Minister," he would be in big trouble very soon. One thing he could do for a good start was to try to make sure no one got hurt at his victory rally. He motioned to several people who stood close by and asked them to help lift those people who had passed out. The job was particularly easy, as both of those who had fainted began to awaken even as they were being lifted from the ground, and soon Harry was reasonably certain that both of them were standing on their own and were safe from being trampled.

He addressed the crowd once again. "I have never accepted an election victory before," he began, and waited for the laughter and applause to die down. "So I think I had better go inside and confer with the experts..." The crowd gasped. Could their heroic leader possibly be referring to Fudge and his minions? Harry grinned and explained. "... Of course, I mean the clerks who actually get all the work done in there." A round of relieved laughter answered him, and Harry jumped down off of the low wall and strode toward the Ministry entrance. Although the crowd parted for him as he passed through the throng, scores of hands reached out to touch him, even if all they could manage was to brush against his robe.

He entered the building to the sounds of more cheering breaking out behind him, but he was thankful that the crowd had somehow decided to remain outside. The Ministry lobby was busy enough without them, and Harry was immediately confused as to where he should go. Last time he had been there, he was fighting for his life. With a start, he realized that he was actually much less comfortable coming in to the Ministry to accept his election victory than he had been while running for his life through the same place.

A tall, thin, elegantly robed wizard approached him at a businesslike pace, wearing a determined expression. "Mister Potter?" he inquired, though he seemed to be quite sure of exactly who Harry was. "Your Mister Lupin may have mentioned me. We spoke while filing your election paperwork."

"Are you Deckard Constantine?" Harry asked in turn, though it was fairly obvious from Remus' description that this man could be no other.

"I am," Deckard replied dryly. "Come this way. I believe I can save you some time with the various official processes you'll be going through."

Harry followed immediately, grateful that someone knew what he was doing there.

-

"Right, then. Try the spell." Fred was staring closely at the receiver unit that Dumbledore had used in the days leading up to Halloween. Once they had reclaimed their invention from the Headmaster's office, the twins had brought it back to their warehouse and had activated it once again, but they had been able to hear nothing. Which was actually a good sign, because Harry had supposedly cleared all of the Death Eaters out of Voldemort's hiding place, and there really shouldn't have been any conversation to pick up. If there had been voices, it would have been extremely suspicious, and might possibly have been a sign of danger - at least to Harry, and possibly to everyone else as well. But Fred had adjusted the amplification of the device, turning its volume up to levels that would produce truly painful sound should the Ear actually pick up a human voice, and he and George both were pretty sure that they had heard the wispy traces of tiny air currents being transmitted from their Ear. And once they were fairly certain that they still had a connection to the transmitting portion of the system, all that remained was to test the spell Albus had taught them: the one that would reveal the location of the Ear to which the receiver was attuned.

George drew his wand and recited the spell. Both twins gazed into the surface of the magic mirror they had designated to display the results of the locator spell. Both twins read the result. Both twins looked at one another.

"No," George said.

"Can't be," Fred agreed.

"Away over there?" George scoffed.

"Wouldn't be practical," Fred said.

Both twins stared at the mirror, as though they might see some magical flaw that could have given them such a ridiculous reading. The mirror looked fine.

"Cast it again," Fred suggested.

"You cast it this time," George insisted. Fred did. The mirror showed the exact same result.

"Should we tell Harry?" Fred wondered.

"He's busy. We have plenty of time," George assured his brother.

-

The first sighting of Lucius Malfoy's ghost was never confirmed by any scholarly authorities on ghostly behavior. In fact, most spectrologists claimed that the sighting was very likely not reliable, since it occurred mere days after Lucius' death, and most spirits required a longer interval after departing their mortal bodies to manifest a visible form. Privately, many of those who dismissed the sighting conceded that the combination of a strong-willed, powerful wizard and the circumstances of his death - namely, execution - may have contributed to an early return, but even those authorities remained skeptical.

The spectre was first seen in Flourish and Blott's booksellers in Diagon Alley. A clerk called attention to the wraith, at first believing him to be a thief. Several people looked when the clerk called out, however, and all of them agreed that, rather than stealing, the ghost was attempting to place a book into a young girl's bookbag. The girl herself never saw the ghost, but claimed to have felt a cold chill along her spine immediately after the clerk cried out. The girl's parents said they felt a sense that their daughter was in terrible danger, though that may have been due to nothing more than the combination of reasonable parental concern and a warning being shouted by one of the store's employees.

Those who described the ghost reported seeing a remarkably detailed and exceptionally opaque manifestation, more like a living man than most ghostly apparitions. This may have explained why the clerk had at first thought the shade to be a living thief.

It is hard to estimate how much that first report may have fired the imaginations of others, but immediately following it, sightings of Lucius Malfoy's ghost became quite common, especially in London.

-

Another disputed paranormal experience led to one of the more persistent modern legends to have taken root in Slytherin House at Hogwarts. The event occurred soon after the first sighting of the Malfoy Ghost, on a day which had been designated a Hogsmeade holiday for Hogwarts, during which students would be allowed to leave campus and visit the nearby village.

Four students had deliberately become separated from their fellows, had left the clear path leading to the village to hide themselves in a stand of trees, where one of their number had arranged for a case of beer to be left for them. Gregory Goyle, Chas Thrasher, Boyd Reimuth and Jordan Lurker were relaxing in the woods, enjoying their beverages and talking about what had happened since last summer.

"A real cockup," Goyle groused. "We get to go visit the Big Man, but we're never included. Now they say he's gone. That's probably a load of shite. They said he was gone before . But one thing's sure. My Dad's not shown up at home since Halloween."

"Yer lucky," Thrasher growled, tossing back a half-can of Guinness before continuing. "Mine came home totally impotent. Can't summon a damn beer from the cooler. Can't levitate a chair to the dinner table. Worse, he's so ashamed of it, like he did something wrong. I yelled at the old man last I was at home. Before that, I never raised my voice to 'im, ever before. I always said 'Yes, Sir.' But damn the man, I yelled at him last I was home, I did. Said, 'What in Hell you creepin' about for like yer fearful of shadows? Ye lost a fight! So what? Ye lost. So take yer lumps and be a man for it!' I thought he might punch me, might knock me down and tell me what for. But I've never felt worse in my life than right then. Because the old man turns to me and cries! Not all blubbering boo-hoo, but with water from the eyes and a face like an old woman. Disgusting."

The other three boys were uncomfortable hearing such a personal account as that. To break the nervous silence, Reimuth offered, "My Mom and Dad both were in the pile of bodies Potter dropped on the Ministry plaza. Stiff as boards and without even their clothes on to keep 'em decent. Bastard dropped 'em there like cut wood. At least I know where mine are. Sorry, Greg. Jordan! What about you 'n' yours?"

"My dad," Jordan nodded. Then, with a shrug, "Blew up."

"What?" Jordan's three companions demanded as one.

Jordan glanced at each of the other three in turn, then drank some more of his beer. He narrowed his eyes, thinking about what had happened. "Halloween. Dad. Came home, laughed a lot, went to get my Grandfather's wand. When we found him, all that was left was broken bones and... a mess."

"Fuuuuuck," Chas drawled.

"Yeah, fuck," agreed Gregory, gulping more beer.

"Way fuck," nodded Boyd, then slammed his empty beer can against a tree trunk. "And we're fucked as well! Our dads all dead or missing or crippled, my mom gone, the whole future I had planned swept away like it was never there. No Big Man, no Organization, no... no place to go... no nothing! All totally, completely, absolutely fucked, fucked, fucked!"

"Or not," Goyle suggested, icily calm.

Chas was outraged. "What - ha' ye nae heard us all, ye daft git?" As the Guinness took effect, Thrasher's affected accent he used at Hogwarts began to slip away, and the musical sound of his family's speech became more prominent. "Yer father's nae returnin' and e'en if he ware te, you'd have no one te join wi' 'oo 'ad aspirations fer aught."

"He's right," Boyd pointed out despondently. "We would've been lucky to join something like the Organization. We could have taken advantage of their planning and their organization, their power and their experience, and their tradition - which is what gave them the sheer number of loyal followers that were all in on it together. Without them... without the Big Man, sure, but without them all - all of them working together... we might as well be shooting spitwads at the sun as trying to change the world to be more like we want it to be."

"Or not," Gregory repeated, eyes flashing.

"Got something?" Jordan asked calmly.

"Yeah, I've Got Something," Goyle announced. "First, think of this: How many of us are there?"

"Four," Chas responded quickly.

"Not right here, nitwit!" Greg exclaimed with impatience. "I mean, think of how many young men and women have lost their fathers or their mothers or both. Or who have lost... I don't know... the big guy of the family, whether he's an Uncle or a Granddad - or maybe he's not family at all. Maybe he's the first one to have told them about the Organization, and about how much better it was going to be when the plans all started coming together. Think of how many people were at Crabbe's party. Think that all of those people were only a tiny sample of the ones I'm talking about. That whole group was drawn from one year, from one House, from one school, from people Vince knew well enough to invite! There's got to be several times that many at Hogwarts alone! And they're interested. You know they're still interested - we were interested, and we'd still be interested if there was anything to be interested in! So all we have to do is to get these interested people together. Remind them of their losses. Remind them of the dreams they had that got taken away when the first Organization got whacked. Remind them that things have a way of evening out - first one side gets whacked, then it's the other side's turn. Let them know that there has to be someone to carry on the fight. Someone to take revenge. Someone to take Voldemort's place!"

And that is when the legendary event took place. Whether it was, as Chas and Boyd later claimed, because Gregory said the dread name out loud, or whether it was, as Jordan later claimed, because the group of four friends had left themselves in an indefensible place far from witnesses, the reasons hardly mattered at the time. What mattered to the four sixth-year students was that their wands suddenly went flying, tearing themselves out of pockets and right through cloth to make their escape; each of the four suffered a terrible bolt of agony through his entire body; and in the instant following the blast of pain, none of the four could move.

"Boys... boys," came a soothing woman's voice. It was a voice like any of their mothers' voices, though none of them could identify whose voice it was.

"Can I kill one - just to show the others we're serious?" a harsh cackling burst in to interrupt the soothing voice.

"I don't think so," the motherly voice crooned.

"You're soft!" the harsh voice countered. "Look at that one. He'd look so good with his entrails spread out all over the ground. I could cut open his middle and pull. Twice. Maybe three times. And just think of how beautiful it would be."

"He'd die," a third voice spoke, so sweet and clear, so luscious that all four boys strained to turn to see who had spoken, even though they were so thoroughly petrified that none of them could blink, much less turn.

"He might get first aid," the ancient voice whined. "He might get some help. He might live."

"Not the way you pull guts out," the sweet voice countered, giving all the boys a chill.

The three women walked slowly into the boys' view. They all wore long cloaks with hoods. The hoods seemed to be completely empty, darkness filling the space in which a face should have appeared. There was a fat one, a thin one, and one of medium girth. Beyond that, the boys could tell nothing about the three.

"Now boys," the motherly sounding one of the three addressed the group. "You must know that we allowed your departed Dark Lord to be defeated so easily for a reason."

"There was much for which we did not care in his methods," croaked the ancient voice.

"Besides which... he was mean," cooed the luscious voice.

"We usually like to see a good fight," cackled the harsh voice.

"But in this case, there was no point in allowing your one-time hero a chance," the motherly voice said smoothly. "We were determined that he would be destroyed."

"If you go trying to put the old hate network back together," sighed the youngest one.

"We'll have to gut you like fish, and leave your carcasses to feed the flowers," shrieked the oldest of the trio.

"You may call us the Furies, or you may call us the Fates," the motherly voice instructed.

"Or, if you wish to be more favorably considered, you may call upon us as the Kindly Ones," the tantalizingly lovely voice sang.

"But whatever you call us remember that we know what you are doing," croaked the dry voice of the ancient crone.

"We know what you are saying and what you are planning," the motherly voice crooned.

"We know what is in your hearts," the luscious voice teased. "No matter how offensive it might be to us."

"So don't," the motherly one commanded them. "Don't put your network together. Don't organize your contacts. Don't find a secret meeting place. Don't choose a leader. Don't have your compatriots swear allegiance to him. Don't plot the overthrow of the dominant culture. Don't plan assassinations. Don't. All that you've spoken of today. Don't. Especially you, Gregory Goyle. Don't. Do I have to make myself more clear?"

"I could make it clear," the crone rasped. "It would be clearer with each wound he took."

"Or I could kill them all," the sweet one added daintily.

"You will regain the power of movement in a short while, when I decide that you may be trusted with it," the motherly one explained. "Your fate is - for once - in your own hands. You can choose to be suicidally foolish. Or you can decide otherwise. Goodbye, boys."

The three were gone, and almost immediately, the boys could move once again.

The first time Gregory Goyle told that story - in the Slytherin common room, to an audience that included Vincent Crabbe and several other strong boys whose families had been tied to the Death Eaters - he was beaten until his entire torso was covered in bruises. Despite the beatings, he stuck to his story. This - and the fact that the three other witnesses remained equally adamant about what had occurred - impressed his listeners so greatly that the tale became one of Slytherin House's most persistent legends. As the story spread, many who heard it began trying to find a symbolic rather than a literal meaning to the tale. But Goyle wasn't distracted by such foolishness. So far as he was concerned, planning to reconstruct the Death Eater network led to pain and helplessness and the wrath of the Kindly Ones. He applied himself to his studies with a vigor his teachers had never before seen in him. Gregory Goyle resigned himself to a future that would necessarily include gainful employment in the society as it currently stood.

-

Albus Dumbledore wandered through a generously sized, but sparsely furnished hillside cottage, humming tunelessly and reacquainting himself with the property. The Dumbledore family had once been quite extensive, and as their numbers had dwindled over the past several hundred years, the considerable wealth of a number of branches of the family had become concentrated in fewer and fewer hands. Throughout his lifetime, Albus had inherited quite a lot of property, including dozens of homes. Most he had sold. Some he had given away, cementing important alliances by making the dwellings wedding gifts for his friends' children or congratulatory gifts for particularly powerful wizards on auspicious occasions. A few he had never even visited. But this one had been in the back of his mind for quite some time as a potential retreat once he was ready to leave Hogwarts.

The cottage had many advantages to recommend it. It was unimposing from the outside, and a few glamours could make the structure nearly invisible to any but the most skilled and determined searchers. It was far from neighbors, and quite a long distance from the nearest settlement of any size. It was sturdy, nearly soundproof already, and could be further insulated quite easily against noise as well as the vagaries of weather. It had many rooms, reliable plumbing, a fully finished attic and a well-appointed basement. It had belonged to Dumbledores since it had been built. Powerful magic had been worked there. And it sat immediately above a strong ley line. The soil of the hill was dense and rocky, but many trees had taken root, surrounding the cottage and helping insure its privacy. Anyone who took the trouble to note that Albus had moved to that particular cottage upon leaving his career in academe would be reassured that Dumbledore had retired to an old family property, and would probably presume that the old man would never be heard from again.

That suited Albus Dumbledore perfectly.

As he wandered, he mentally assigned certain functions to the various rooms. Certain rooms were perfect candidates for particular uses: library, research center, practice room, and more. He came upon a large bedroom, nearly bare of furniture except for a workbench that had been permanently bolted to two walls. On the bench were a number of the kitchy kinds of knicknacks he usually displayed in his office. "Should get rid of these stupid shells," he murmured, picking up one of the figures and inspecting its base. Within the delicate porcelain figurine of the shepherd girl was a powerful and sensitive magic detector, which could be attuned to particular magical signatures. When properly adjusted, it could reveal whenever a particular wizard cast a spell. An expert interpreter could reliably determine the type of spell, and even the magical strength that had gone into each particular spell's casting. Dumbledore gently placed the figurine back onto the workbench. He smiled as he inspected the various detectors he had arranged there. There would soon be many more of them arranged on these benches. This room would have a very important function. "Potter monitor," Dumbledore mumbled, and went to inspect the kitchen.

-

Harry used a subtle combination of a summoning spell and a levitation spell to move the huge stone block from its place in the center of one room's wall in the complex he had captured by defeating Voldemort. He felt that he was getting better at blending magical forces and creating useful spells by combining several different magical effects at once. He was certain that he was gaining much more subtle and positive control over his power. He drew the massive stone block out of position centimeter by centimeter, listening carefully for the sounds of collapsing soil from behind the slab, or any liquid sounds that might betray the presence of water or even molten rock beyond the barrier of the wall. He heard nothing but the grinding together of hard surfaces as the stone moved.

Once the wall section had been removed, Harry placed it to one side to allow himself and his friends to inspect what it had covered. To Harry, the exposed surface was simply dirt. Remus shrugged, unable to deduce much more from what he could see. But Snape scowled, looked closely at the packed soil, sniffed carefully, then removed a few grains by dragging his finger across the tightly packed surface and placed the particles onto his tongue to taste them. He looked at Harry, his face showing puzzlement. "Unless we are very far below ground, which I doubt, I don't think we're in England at all."

Harry found this very unlikely. Voldemort, for all his threats that he would dominate the entire world someday, had always operated in the British Isles. His favorite recruits were English. His previous places of retreat had been in England. Harry had been sure that England would be the country in which the Dark Lord would bury his sanctum. But Snape was a very highly educated man. If he said this was not English soil, it probably wasn't. But had some different dirt been specifically chosen for packing around these walls? Harry wanted more information. "Why do you say that?"

"This soil is characteristic of somewhere much warmer and wetter than England," Snape lectured.

"Wetter?" Harry asked skeptically.

"Tropical," Snape declared definitively. "The organic matter especially reveals a tropical origin."

Harry looked at the dirt and could see nothing particularly tropical about it. Then again, he admitted to himself, even with his limited experience as an Herbologist earlier that year, he wasn't exactly an expert on organic material in soil. He would take Snape's word for it. "Move aside. I'll send up the probe," he ordered, and both men immediately obeyed. He was getting much better at giving orders - and expecting them to be carried out. Harry had learned something about how many ways there were to be a bad commander, and he had been forced to admit that he had shared many qualities with some of the worst commanders in history. Becoming comfortable with giving orders smoothly and learning to accept the obedience of others gracefully had required a number of difficult lessons. Harry knew he would be studying the subject of leadership for a long while to come.

Harry scooped a small handful of dirt away from the packed mass and pressed it into an oval shape. Concentrating hard, he transfigured the soil into a solid mass. He had been attempting to turn the soil into something like stainless steel. The iron weight he wound up with was more like a fishing sinker than the glittering ornament he had envisioned, but on reflection he decided that the rough, dull item was probably more appropriate. A shiny one would simply have gotten all scratched up, anyway. Harry scooped some more packed dirt into a large, loose pile on the floor. This would be the material for the most difficult challenge to his transfiguring ability. He placed his iron weight into the pile of dirt, then began to levitate it. As the weight rose, it drew a metallic cable behind it, transfigured from the dirtpile in which it had rested. As the cable was drawn away by the rising weight, more soil was transfigured into cable so the entire construction resembled an iron snake rising from the loose earth on the floor. This operation required Harry to coordinate at least three ongoing spells at once. He was lifting the weight, directing its flight, and transfiguring soil into metal cable all at the same time. And he was about to add a fourth spell to the mix. As a result, the iron snake moved very slowly. But its movements were deliberate and the magic remained coordinated. Pleased with his own efforts, Harry began to work his fourth spell.

As Snape had explained to him days ago, Harry knew that pulling huge amounts of earth out of the packed mass in order to form a tunnel would end up burying him and possibly filling the entire room in which he stood. But pulling a fistful of soil at a time to create a tiny space through which his probe could move would create a much smaller volume of debris. Gently, Harry began to dig at the surface of the packed soil, near the top of the space left by the removal of the stone block. Moving in extremely slow motion in order to keep his many magical efforts under control, Harry directed the iron weight into the cavity he had created. It had soon disappeared from sight, dragging its long cable as it went.

Snape and Remus had little to do but watch and remain alert in case of catastrophe. Snape still suspected that Voldemort had placed his sanctum under a riverbed, and he waited for a sudden flood of water to burst into the room. Remus, by contrast, believed that the Dark Lord would have built his complex in as simple and easily accomplished fashion as possible. He watched for the gleam of sunlight to pour through the opening made for the probe.

Remus shouted first. "It's through!" he called in warning. Harry appreciated the notice. As he had progressed, he had become more and more concentrated on his magic, feeling his way upward as he delicately displaced soil and thrust the probe farther along its way. By the time Remus called out, Harry was not seeing through his eyes at all. He stared blankly forward, receiving his most informative impressions through feedback from the leading edge of his spells, experiencing a sort of 'magic sense' of which he had previously felt only the barest hints, and then only when utilizing his most powerful magic. He had been confused when he had felt resistance to his probe disappear, and it was only when he looked through his eyes once again to see the brilliant sunlight spilling through the probe shaft that he understood that the resistance had disappeared because his probe had broken the surface. Harry checked the cable. "We're a little over thirty feet down... say thirty-five to be safe," he announced.

"So how do you plan to proceed?" Snape asked as though digging out of Voldemort's old throne complex were a classroom assignment.

"Transfigure," Harry shrugged, looking up through the shaft, trying to see some evidence of what awaited them above.

"I presume you are speaking of transfiguring soil into air," Snape sneered. "I thought that I had explained explosive decompression sufficiently well to discourage you from attempting to follow that course," he concluded, clearly disappointed in his student's lack of attention.

"You did," Harry said absently. "That's why I'm not starting the transfiguration down here. I'm transfiguring the soil near the surface, and only around the shaft I've already dug out. The fluid air has plenty of room to expand and move, and we'll hardly feel a breeze around us... Ow!"

"Yawn!" Remus ordered, immediately taking his own suggestion.

Snape was already stretching his mouth in a wide, pressure-equalizing gape. As soon as he had finished, he told Harry, "We will not be feeling any breeze around us. There is no exit through which air might escape and allow a breeze to blow around us. What we will feel is a sudden increase in pressure, which is what hurt your ears." He immediately yawned again.

"Pressure drop, now!" Remus barked. "Yawn again!" Once again, he opened his jaw wide.

Harry imitated the men, stretching his mouth open in an exaggerated, imitation yawn. He felt his ears pop several times and was left with a ringing sound and the beginnings of a headache. "I'll work more slowly," he promised his companions.

As Harry's tunnel began to widen, he could see that it would be a bad idea to dig straight upward for thirty-five feet. If he were to fall from the top of his tunnel, he might be able to gather his wits sufficiently to prevent being badly injured, but he was pretty sure that few others would be able to do so. He had no idea how heavily trafficked was the ground below which he stood, and he did not want to set up a deadly trap for unsuspecting passersby. So he started widening the tunnel at the bottom first. He worked very slowly and took plenty of breaks to keep from suffering another ear-crushing pressure wave. He fashioned steps in the tunnel's side on which to climb, and when his excavation was about eight feet high, he created an offset ledge where he could stand and work his way upward at a place not directly above the lower shaft. He magically reinforced the lowest segment and began working on the next section. It seemed to take forever. Once again, Snape and Remus had little to do except watch, and they were quickly tired of the inactivity. Harry concentrated on finding ways to speed up his labor, and soon, there were four magically-reinforced sections of tunnel leading to a ledge just below the surface, wide enough to accommodate all three companions.

Harry called to Remus and Snape to climb up and join him, then fell silent in order to listen carefully. A grin spread across his face. There were no sounds of motor traffic or of huge crowds, but he could hear sounds of English being spoken among a small group of individuals. Perfect. Wanting to be prepared for whatever he might find above, Harry tried to follow the conversation above him. It was odd - seemingly nonsense.

"There he is. Can you get him? Lit well enough. He won't stop moving. Steady... now. Good. He's interested in something over there. Oh, bugger, there he's gone!"

Remus and Snape were on the ledge by the time Harry heard that last comment, so he reached up and pushed - with his hands and with magic, pushing his way up out of the Earth, accompanied by both men.

"Bloody Hell!" a man's voice shouted, then immediately continued, "We've found them!"

Harry looked around. As Snape had suggested, the land was tropical - moist, dense jungle. There was heavy undergrowth and thick vines hung from many of the trees. The air felt hot and sticky. Harry was sweating and uncomfortable in seconds.

The same voice that had claimed to have found someone turned out to belong to a large blond man who was, at that moment, baring his gleaming front teeth in a broad grin. "By God, you three!" he said, so heartily that he was nearly shouting. "We've been looking all over for you. Merlin's Beard, I never thought that anyone would stoop to burying you in the jungle! Beastly, just beastly. Good job you dragged yourself out of there, lads! I was photographing a beast who stood just where you broke free of the ground, and I never saw any evidence that you had been put there at all. Well! Dumbledore will be happy enough to hear you've been found. And I'll bet that school of yours won't be paying for that rental boat, either, what?"

The man took a breath and realized that his audience had no idea who he was. A bit embarrassing for a great explorer and wildlife photographer not to be recognized, but these three had apparently been through quite a traumatic experience.

"Creevey!" the man announced, holding out his hand to Remus. "Edmund Creevey! Sent to search for you on behalf of your esteemed Headmaster! Honestly, it feels as though we've covered half of Brazil searching for you. Damned glad to see you, lads, damned glad!"

The wildlife photographer was baffled as to why all three of the men he had searched for so diligently laughed hard enough that two fell down, and the third still stood helplessly shaking with mirth several minutes after their laughter had begun.

-

At Hogwarts, the excitement of the election of Harry Potter to Minister of Magic had died down very quickly after the completion of the vote recount. Students promptly returned to their primary concerns: studies and socializing. Ron had sat next to Hermione during dinner for several nights in a row, and on a Friday night, as most of the other students were leaving the Hall after finishing their meals, he asked her, "Who are you going to the Yule Ball with?"

Hermione looked wistfully around the Hall, remembering how it had been decorated for the Ball in years past, and those with whom she had attended. "I don't know," she admitted. With a sigh, she expanded on that answer. "I'd rather not even go if I have to be someone's date."

"What? Go alone?" Ron said, his face twisting in confusion.

"No, that wouldn't work at all. The Yule Ball is a formal dance; you're expected to arrive in couples. What I mean is, I don't want to go with some boy who will buy me a corsage and then expect me to fall in love with him because we were at the Yule Ball together. There are so many expectations put on that dance. It's the romantic event of the year. You're supposed to attend with the love of your life." She snorted contemptuously. "How much sense does that make? Like the entire population of the school is going to synchronize their romantic watches to chime together on the night of the Christmas Dance. It's ridiculous. I'd rather go with a friend and be able to enjoy the event without all the pressure. The dance is always beautiful. It would be fun to enjoy the dancing, the music, the food - and not have to worry about being obligated to your date for... anything."

"Oh," Ron said, not sure whether Hermione had just confirmed or denied his supposition. "I had thought that you might be going with... you know... the Minister-elect."

Hermione took a moment to translate Ron's statement. When she realized what he had meant, her eyes widened and she had to work to keep from laughing. "No... Harry? No."

"What's wrong with Harry?"

"Nothing's wrong with him, Ron. Really, the very things that make him inappropriate as a Yule Ball date are the same things that make him so sweet. If he and I went to the dance together, Harry would feel obligated. He would feel as though he had to take me out at least once more."

"Heavy obligation," Ron muttered sourly.

Hermione cuffed him lightly on the shoulder. "Don't be bad. Harry would feel obligated. He would feel like he had to ask me out again, he would feel like he had to treat me all romantically, and he'd be uncomfortable and awkward and it would turn into a big deal, and it might even spoil our friendship. No, I won't be going to the dance with Harry."

"Oh," Ron said again, still not quite sure that he understood correctly. He decided to take the chance of presuming that he did understand. "I know what you mean. And... I agree. I would like to go to the Yule Ball with my best friend."

Hermione looked delightedly scandalized. "Ron! _You're_ asking Harry?"

Ron looked blank for a moment, then looked totally horrified. "No! No, I'm not... Harry? No. Hermione, I mean I'm asking you."

"Ron..." Hermione said warningly.

"No pressure," Ron assured her, holding his hands up as though asking for a truce. "No... uh... expectations. I admit that I want to dance every slow dance with you, but..."

"Ron," Hermione interrupted sternly, "do you even know how to slow dance?"

"No," Ron admitted with a shrug. "But I'll bet you do. And I'll also bet that you could show me something simple enough that even I could learn it before the Ball."

Hermione regarded Ron suspiciously, but there was a smile threatening to break through. "Humility... and dance lessons? I think I am being romanced, Ron."

"Nah. I know how you feel. And I know something else, too. I know that looking up those tax records and flying out to Harry's house together on my broomstick was fun." His earnest plea was interrupted by a sudden realization. "I have to get out there and get my broomstick back. I really miss it."

Hermione laughed. "Classic Ron. Whatever else you're talking about, it's suddenly 'Oh! my stick!'"

Ron blushed a brilliant red but did not drop his eyes. "Sorry," he said tightly. "I just thought of it." Hermione laughed again at his admission of what she had just described. Ron pressed on with grim determination. "What I meant was, When we were doing all that it was like some of our other adventures - Don't laugh, we did have adventures, it's true! Finding the Sorcerer's Stone... well, getting Harry on his way to find the Sorcerer's Stone, anyway - that was an adventure! And sneaking around to help save Buckbeak and..." Ron looked around to make sure no one was listening. "... and all that stuff we did. You know. That was an adventure! And we may have been scared sometimes, but that made it exciting. And finding the Potters' place and going out and seeing..." he glanced around again. "You know what all we did. It was fun. It was fun to work with you and fun to find things out with you and fun to fly with you and..." He shut up, seeing Hermione start to turn defensive at his outpouring of feeling. "What I mean is, you're my best friend. And I think we could go to the Yule Ball and enjoy the... the everything there without... I mean, we could be relaxed and not worry about expectations..."

"Ron," Hermione cut off Ron's rambling. She reached out and covered one of his hands with her own. "That is the absolute worst delivery of an invitation I have ever heard." He looked horrified. "However, the invitation itself was the best. Best friend. I hope so. You're my best friend too. Let's go to the Yule Ball together and just have fun."

"Yes!" Ron agreed enthusiastically, drawing a warning look from Hermione. More calmly, with deliberate restraint, he asked, "When can we practice dancing?"

Hermione stood, lifting his hand to draw him along with her. "What about now?" She led him in a waltz-like dance, twirling smoothly between the tables of the Great Hall. Anyone watching from a distance would have been quite impressed with the students' first real slow dance together, and would probably not have heard Hermione's repeated cries of "Ow" as Ron stepped on her feet.

-

In his plastic blister on his cardboard display, Voldemort bided his time. He did not feel - could not feel - as though he were actually standing in that confining package, or lying in it, or sitting. He hardly had enough points of articulation to even get into a complex position such as 'sitting.' But he did abide, and he was good at that.

It was boring. Horribly dull and boring. Left here in an empty room, there was nothing to watch through the distorting plane of the plastic covering. There was nothing to hear, either, except on two occasions recently: once when the Brat Who Survived came to dig his way out of the buried complex, and once again when the boy had returned to seal the sanctum back up.

Lord Voldemort silently criticized his enemy. 'Digging out was stupid. What did it matter where the Throne Chambers were buried? That's why they had been buried, to keep them out of the way of the ignorant fools who carry on their lives overhead. Of course, the Brat would not have anticipated my genius in burying the complex in the deep jungle, where development would not reach for decades. Perhaps that is why he needed to see for himself where he would emerge when he dug his way out. At least he sealed the chambers once again. That was the only intelligent thing to do - admit that the Dark Lord's plan was pure genius, and adhere to it.'

Voldemort had a number of critiques such as that which he reviewed over and over again as a way to pass the time. He had been in worse situations. He had been completely disembodied for a time. At least now he had a body. And it was a body that was particularly resistant to decay. Bacteria were not interested in consuming the plastic from which his current shell was made. Larger creatures would find no nutrition in him either. He did not smell particularly enticing, and in any event, he was sealed up in the revel room where no large creatures could enter. The Brat had, no doubt inadvertently, created the vessel that was most likely to allow Voldemort to live forever! And the Dark Lord had never been one to allow his time to go to waste. If the Brat could learn wandless magic, there was no reason on Earth why the exceptionally powerful and inventive Voldemort could not do the same.

His first attempts to move his body, to summon his wand, and to break the seal of the package which contained him had all been in vain - but he had nothing but time to work on those abilities. He had attempted apparation repeatedly. That was, in a sense, the most common magical ability that did not directly involve wand use. But he had been unable to apparate, either, and had decided that he was aiming too high for a first attempt at casting a spell as a plastic figurine.

His next realization was that, as an action figure, he was essentially an object with a magical mind more than he was a living creature with magical ability. His very body could be a wand - or at least a crude wand-substitute. What was really required for magic was a mind to drive the spell, and a device to focus it. Once he had decided to accept that as his working theory, he concentrated first on casting Lumos. He would light his plastic body as though he were lighting a wand. If his attempt worked, he should be able to see the reflection of the illumination shining from his head in the plastic wrap before his eyes. He tried and tried, and when he failed, he found that his strongest feeling was that the spell lacked the spoken word that would activate the magic.

He thought for a long while about how to get around that difficulty, and decided that ventriloquism would do the trick. If he could make the word 'Lumos' sound by using a ventriloquism spell, then he could use that sound to trigger the illumination of his own body by casting the Lumos spell as soon as he heard his ventriloquism word. It would be difficult to coordinate, and he suspected that he would have to learn to cast two spells at once in order to have any chance at success.

His first attempts were completely futile, but that was to be expected. He had no natural voice to 'throw' using ventriloquism. And if he could not make the original sound somehow, the spell would not have anything to copy. For all he knew, he had actually been successful at casting the ventriloquism spell, and the spell had dutifully reproduced exactly the sound he had been able to make with his non-existent voice box - which was complete silence. The problem he faced was multilayered and highly confusing, demanding a level of magical thinking he had never before been forced to consider. Such challenges would lead to many failures before allowing any success, but Voldemort could suffer the frustration. He knew how to make the best of his defeats, and he had come back from disaster before this.

And even if he never learned to cast a spell in this form, Voldemort knew that he had one advantage remaining. Someone, someday, would find this complex. Someone, someday, would remove his package from the revel room, and would open it. A child might play with him, placing his wand into his hand. Or a scholar might recognize his name, and transform his plastic form into living material once again. He might thus make his triumphant return to flesh and blood. Or, he might be discovered by some magical tinkerer who could simply return to him the ability to speak and move. But somehow, someday, he would be removed from his plastic prison and set free once again.

And when he was, he would remember so much that would call for revenge. He had been served most barbarously. His vengeance would be terrible, indeed.

THE END

-

Many thanks to all of you who contributed reviews for this piece.

If you are among those who have not yet submitted a review, I would appreciate reading your thoughts on this story.

My next project is an original, science-fiction tale involving alien anthropologists on Earth, and a few students who drop out of the program while on a planet far from their own. (Ours, that is.) Watch for Changing Station, coming your way just as soon as I can finish it… and find someone to publish the thing!


	23. Twelve Months Later Hermione

Hermione Granger woke later than usual for a Tuesday. She opened her eyes slowly then took the time for a long, luxurious stretch before sitting up and putting a pillow behind her shoulders, relaxing back into its softness as she looked around her dorm room. The girls with whom she shared her room were all at class already. Crookshanks was awake but couched marble-lion fashion on the dresser across the room. He blinked lazily at her, not bothering to move if Hermione was not going to get out of bed. The girl smiled at her pet and listened to the exquisite quiet of an early-morning deserted dorm.

Hermione was well into her seventh year at Hogwarts. Any other Tuesday would be filled with a long lecture in Charms, an even longer Charms laboratory period, and a mixed class in Transfiguration. This Tuesday, however, Hermione would not be going to class at all. She had followed the proper procedure of getting a pass for the day from Headmistress McGonagall, but since Voldemort had been defeated and the Death Eaters' organization destroyed, it felt almost silly taking the precaution of letting the entire staff know that she would be absent from classes, and making the Headmistress herself issue an off-campus pass. She was sure that by the time the current first-years were attending post-O.W.L. classes, most of them would simply bring a note to class on the next day of regular attendance if they chose to be absent one day. But there was something comfortingly nostalgic about following the old procedures, doing everything in the old Hogwarts way.

For the past six and one-half years, Hermione had loved going to class at Hogwarts. She had loved preparing for class, participating in class, and doing the assignments handed out in class. She had always pursued any available extra credit assignments, had volunteered for any additional work that was offered. But by this point in her seventh year, it was obvious to Hermione (as it had been to her teachers for the past few months) that there was really no point in her continued attendance in any of the classes in which she was currently enrolled. She had already read all of the material that would be assigned for the rest of the year, and had gone on to finish those chapters in each class text that were not part of that year's study. She had turned in all of the work that was due, achieving top-level marks on each assignment. She had even written out most of the assignments that would be due by term end. The parchments were stacked neatly in her dorm room, waiting for their due dates to roll around so that they could be handed to the appropriate professors. She had even done most of the standard extra-credit work and completed her first two independent study projects in Charms, save for the final drafts of her reports. She had demonstrated the results of her first independent study project for Transfiguration, and was well into mastering her second. She was more than ready for her N.E.W.T.s, and each of her teachers assured her that the quality of her writing was higher than that produced by many former students who had successfully completed their Hogwarts schooling and gone on to professional careers.

It was time to move on.

Her only difficulty in deciding how to move on had been a lack of a concrete goal for her life after school. This unfamiliar absence of a clear plan - especially following six years of intense study during which her goals had been very clear - vexed Hermione throughout the first half of her seventh year.

She was confident that, should she decide to do so, she could continue her studies by gaining acceptance to one of the few magical Universities the wizarding world had to offer, although attending any of those prestigious institutions would require living abroad, as there was a complete dearth of post-secondary school magic education available in Britain. Hermione was fairly confident that she could master a foreign language well enough to get by in another country, but she wondered at how comfortable she would be in any of the unfamiliar environments surrounding the available magical campuses. Egypt, with its desert heat and brilliant sunshine, would be quite a change from the cold and damp of Hogwarts, without even considering the striking cultural differences. South Africa might be a better choice. Its veldt would probably be less of a contrast to the Scottish countryside with which Hermione was familiar, and the South Africans did speak English... of a sort. In comparison to either of those locations, Canada would feel almost like home, and she thought that Professor McGonagall had contacts with some of the University staff in Nova Scotia, which might allow her some advantage in being considered for admittance there. Hermione was almost sure that she had heard the Headmistress mention family members who had immigrated to the New World, but she couldn't quite recall any names or other important specifics about the immigrant McGonagall clan - including the potentially significant fact of how many generations ago the Canadians had left their Scots homeland. Not that Hermione really felt she would need the special intervention of her Head of House in order to impress an admissions officer, anyway. If she decided on a specific University, and if she were determined to gain admittance, she was sure that she would be accepted.

But there were other choices for continuing her education beyond the obvious University route. She could apply for an apprenticeship program. This was a much trickier proposition, however, and if she were to be able to profit from an apprenticeship, she would need good, trustworthy advice and a personal recommendation from someone with prestige. An apprenticeship with a well-established witch or wizard could give Hermione an advantage that would last for her entire professional life. Apprenticeships tended to be long-term affairs, though, with a great deal of loyalty and dedication expected from the apprentice. In her current indecisive mood, Hermione wasn't sure that she could promise anyone the kind of long-term devotion that was usually called for.

Another choice - one that had been repeatedly suggested by her classmates - was to take some time away from school without diving directly into an intense career path. The way some of the girls in the Gryffindor dorm talked about it, the best thing to do immediately after school was to work at a simple job, become familiar with budgeting by paying the rent and bills from wages, and get used to caring for oneself outside the comfortable womb of the school's dining hall and dormitory - without house elves to pick up the hard domestic work. While doing all of that, one could think about she really wanted to do. To Hermione, that simply sounded immature. As much sophistication as other seventh years tried to put into their voices as they described 'just living' for a year or two, Hermione could hear the subtext beneath the facade. 'Just living' was expected to become 'just partying' in short order. And for many of the girls, the expectation that they would be getting married soon was supposed to provide a solution for the majority of their lives' problems, although few of them could reasonably expect to marry anyone so wealthy as to be able to support them in the manner to which they wished to become accustomed.

None of those choices felt right to Hermione, and she worried that she would pass some crucial date and miss her chance to advance her life in a satisfactory manner if she continued to be unable to decide what she wanted.

She had spoken with Headmistress McGonagall about the availability of opportunities post-Hogwarts, and the Headmistress had been very encouraging. But she had also been very vague. The Headmistress repeatedly assured her finest student that with her intelligence and exemplary work ethic she could do whatever she wished. What the Professor did not offer were any suggestions as to what such an intelligent, hard-working young lady might wish to do with herself once the term ended.

Much to Hermione's surprise, it was the Potions professor, Madame Routhe, who offered her the advice she needed.

Hermione usually did not encounter Professor Routhe in the regular course of her day, since she was not even taking Potions in her seventh year. But Hogwarts' entire staff was quite aware of the identities of the best students in school, whichever House, year or class in which those students may have been found. Madame Routhe had sought out Hermione and given her the name of a professional acquaintance, a man who had been a master potion maker for years. The Professor told Hermione that this particular individual had always been much more interested in improving upon the potions he made than he ever could have been in simply churning out great quantities of those brews with which he was already familiar. He had worked in the potion labs of the Ministry of Magic alongside Madame Routhe (who herself had been quite satisfied with her employment), but he had become bored and frustrated with the Ministry routine, and had sought out a job with a firm that specialized in magical research. He had enjoyed great success and had risen quickly in the company organization.

Madame Routhe had smiled slyly and leaned close to almost whisper into Hermione's ear, "He now has a number of researchers working directly for him."

As soon as Hermione realized that this meant there was a chance she might be able to work in magical research directly after school, she had reacted with enthusiasm, and a great burst of energy. She gathered letters of recommendation from each of her teachers and wrote draft after draft of her letter of introduction. She bundled her recommendations together with the best letter she could compose and sent it off to Webley-Moore-McCall, to the attention of Louis Katraz.

Then she waited.

In so many ways, the directionless languor of the first portion of the year was greatly preferable to the nervousness of that wait. (You must understand that to Hermione, days filled with classes and several hours of homework qualified as languorous.) Every day, when owls would arrive with mail, Hermione would bite her lips and nearly pound the table in impatience only to be disappointed when no communication arrived from Webley-Moore-McCall. If a student delivered a note to one of her teachers during class, Hermione would sit tensely, fists clenched, hoping that the note would be some word for her from the company. As it happened, when she did receive word, it was a complete surprise.

Hermione was walking between Charms and Transfiguration class when Madame Routhe approached her in the hallway, touched her lightly on the arm and smiled.

"I just spoke with Lou by Floo," the Professor said, shaking her head slightly at the unintentional rhyme. "I knew that he hadn't contacted you yet, and I'm afraid I scolded him a bit. But I did learn something. He's quite busy these days - as are all of his associates." Madame Routhe emphasized this last word, adding a quick wink to indicate that she was speaking of those workers who were in the kind of position that Hermione herself would be striving for. "He meant to reply to you. He thought he had done so, in fact. I assured him that this was not the case. And he apologized quite satisfactorily. So, if you would be free Tuesday next, could you visit the W-M-Mc campus? If not, I can convey your regrets. But if you would be able to attend, they will expect you at ten a.m."

Hermione opened her mouth, but she was so excited her voice froze and all that emerged was an inarticulate croak. Embarrassed, she tried to swallow and cough at the same time and choked instead, fighting for air as she drew breath with a horrible wet moaning sound.

"Yes," she whispered. "Tuesday. Ten a.m. Thank you. Thank you so much."

Madame Routhe stood beside Hermione, put her arm across the girl's shoulders and drew her out of the path of most of the between-class traffic travelling through the corridor. "Easy," she coaxed. "There is no need to get exercised about any of this. You are an exceptional young lady and any firm that is interested in its own good fortune in the future will be interested in you. Louis is a very nice man, though he does tend to get lost in his own world now and again. One might as well presume that researchers tend to be that way and accept it in him. There's no reason to believe that he will be anything but honest and gentlemanly with you, however. Simply present yourself at your best and find out as much as you possibly can while you are there. This is only your first job interview, after all. You may have to go through many more of them before your career gets properly underway. Now. Can you breathe? Speak?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Hermione replied quietly, but with a clear voice. "Thank you."

Madame Routhe had walked off without a further word, leaving Hermione to stare after, wondering what would happen the following Tuesday morning.

It was a good thing, she thought later, that her appointment had not been for the very next day. She had time to get very nervous, then to calm down, then to wonder if she had gotten the time and the day correctly, then to wonder if she had imagined her meeting with Madame Routhe. She was very relieved when a card came via owl post confirming her appointment, signed by Louis Katraz himself. She chose clothing for her interview. (A simple robe with sleeves rather short and not too voluminous, which a potion maker would recognize as a practical garment.) She made arrangements to miss class and to be off-campus.

And she waited.

This morning - finally - the waiting was over. There would be time for a hot bath, time to get dressed and plenty of time to make it to the Floo. Hermione snuggled back into her pillow and thought about that simple convenience. She could Floo to her appointment. Directly from Hogwarts. Teachers could Apparate onto the Hogwarts grounds, even into the very building itself. There were still wards left protecting the school - decades of reinforcement made them extremely hard to remove. But the powerful sorceries that had acted as an impenetrable wall against magical transportation around the campus were no more. That simple change had noticeably reduced the stress on the staff. And it had increased the frequency of parental visits. Hermione wasn't sure that Headmistress McGonagall was particularly pleased about the parade of parents that showed up to see her once the school's Floo connections were fully operational. It was certainly unlike anything that Professor Dumbledore had ever had to contend with. But the simple fact of the old castle's connection to the rest of the wizarding world more than made up for any inconvenience, so far as Hermione was concerned. She smiled dreamily, thinking about it. Like the situation regarding permission for being off-campus, or alerting the staff when you were going to be absent from even a single class, the current first years would grow up taking full Floo service and Apparators' access to Hogwarts grounds for granted, and would be hard-pressed to imagine the isolation in which the school had existed for so many years.

Soon, bathed and dressed, Hermione breakfasted lightly. She was too tense to eat more than a piece of toast and some pumpkin juice. She was nearly ready to leave, but she felt as though something were missing. She knew she wasn't an experienced adult. She couldn't bring along a work history or magical patents to show her abilities. But she felt stupid showing up for an interview empty-handed. She settled on carrying a small case with her school grade record and copies of her letters of recommendation. Not that Mister Katraz would want to see them, but she wanted something in hand just so she wouldn't be standing there without anything to show for herself, feeling naked.

She snapped her case closed, walked to the Floo, sprinkled some powder, and - trying not to stutter - pronounced, "Webley-Moore-McCall." She disappeared.

She appeared in a white-brick hearth tall enough that Hagrid could have stood straight within it, and wide enough for several people to stand comfortably shoulder-to-shoulder without crowding. The view from the hearth was a bit disorienting at first. The carpets were eggshell, the walls were off-white, the trim was taupe, the reception desk was cream. Hermione blinked to dispel the illusion that she had fallen into a pail of milk. A pale-skinned, blonde receptionist in an ivory robe stood and smiled at her, pink lips parting to reveal gleaming teeth. "Ms. Granger? This way, please."

Hermione followed, watching her own feet carefully to keep from tripping at the junction of white brick with light carpet. She felt a rush of resentment as she hurried to catch up with the retreating receptionist. 'How does she know that I'm Ms. Granger?' Hermione thought, irritated. 'This woman didn't even wait for me to answer her. I could be the wrong person going to the wrong meeting right now. What does she think she is, a mind reader?'

"Yes," said the receptionist in the casual tone of someone continuing a conversation. "It saves a lot of time." She then looked over her shoulder with a slight scowl. "No, nothing like your Professor Trelawney. I wouldn't dream of predicting what people might think."

Hermione was shocked by the reference to her old Divination professor until she realized that she had thought of Trelawney the moment she believed the receptionist was claiming to acknowledge being a mind reader. And she had thought of the teacher in a very unflattering way: as someone whose inflated claims could not be supported by her actual performance. A bit abashed, Hermione muttered, "Pardon me," certain that she had already gotten off on the wrong foot at this company.

But the receptionist seemed to have followed her train of thought, or at least felt that her apology was genuine, because she replied with, "Pardoned and forgotten. Sometimes I think they ought to warn people who are coming here for the first time - or at least post a sign."

Before she could help herself, Hermione visualized the brilliant reception area supporting a huge, dark wooden sign carved with "Beware of the Telepathic Receptionist." She caught her breath as her fingers rose to cover her lips, but the blonde simply laughed and nodded.

"Yes. Something like that. Here we are." She knocked twice and opened a broad door. "Mister Katraz? Your ten o'clock is here." As she stepped back to allow Hermione entry, she murmured, "You'll do fine," in a reassuring tone, then walked back the way they had come.

Hermione had tried to guess where she would be received. She imagined that the interview would take place in something like Headmistress McGonagall's office, but she had hoped that she might be able to see some of the actual workings of the researchers while she was there, so she had wondered whether she might have been able to talk to Mister Katraz in one of the laboratories. The place she walked into was like a combination of both office and lab, with enough apparently random things stacked and piled throughout the area to have filled several more rooms in a more orderly fashion. The riot of items seemed to have been gathered for the sake of sheer confusion. There was a bank of cauldrons against one wall, with a stone-topped table covered in glassware immediately in front of it. Half of one side of the room was taken up by a glass-covered alcove with a huge fan blade in place of a ceiling. The opposite wall held what appeared to be a carnival-style shooting gallery. It featured a thick, wooden counter facing the room with a broad opening above it leading into a deep, dark space with a narrow lighted area at the far end. Various objects were arrayed there as though placed as targets. Scattered around the room there were rolling blackboards with chalk, easels with huge pads of paper, shelves covered in books... and before she could take in any more, there was a large, fat man, gleamingly pink-faced, clean-shaven and short-haired, dressed in Muggle fashion with a heavy cotton work shirt, work boots and jeans, pulling off a huge leather glove and shoving his hand out for her to shake.

"Lou Katraz," he announced enthusiastically. "Welcome. Let's try to get closer to what passes for my desk these days... I think I can find a chair... or two... Here we go!" Pulling off the other glove, he threw the pair onto a desktop several layers thick with papers of all sorts: drawings, charts and written material. He grabbed two chairs, dragged them into a space on the floor that was clear of the tubes, cables and boxes that were nearly everywhere in the huge room, and nearly dropped into one of the chairs before he caught himself at the last second and gestured toward the other chair. "Have a seat, will you?"

"Certainly. Thank you." Hermione sat and waited for a question, but the magical researcher just sat and looked at her for a long moment. Hermione began to feel uncomfortable. Was she supposed to start the process? Offer something about herself?

Just as she was about to say something to break the silence, Lou Katraz offered, "You certainly know how to compose a letter of introduction." Before Hermione could even offer thanks for that compliment, he went on, "Every teacher who worked for your school in the last several decades contributed a recommendation. And there were a few in there who must be new, 'cause I've never heard of 'em, and Hogwarts was my school, too. Madame Routhe, of course, I knew her from before. I'm glad to hear she's teaching, now. I hated to think of her sitting around the Ministry, brewing up hangover remedies week after week." The man started slightly, as though suddenly remembering Hermione's age. "And other things, of course. She was a good brewer, Pennyroyal, always reliable. But Merlin! When I was there... Fudge was the Minister, You-Know-Who was still out there, and everybody was still denying it... Well, I made a vat of hangover juice for every Monday, rain or shine." He laughed, a one-note chuckle trying to depreciate the comment he had just made. "Not that I'm saying that the Ministry are a bunch of drunks, you know. There are a lot of good people there, straight as a beam of light. But that place - most places where people work, if you ask me - are all about 'By-The-Book.' Do the same thing the same way. I couldn't stand any of 'em. So I came here. And every single day is different. I love it. It's a little hard to keep things orderly." He waved a hand around the room, indicating particular conglomerations of clutter. "But it is exciting. But back to your letter. You aced your classes. You breezed through your O.W.L.s. Everyone on the Hogwarts staff expects you to knock your N.E.W.T.s senseless. So I can skip the part of the interview I usually have to start with when talking to young applicants. The 'What-Have-You-Done' part. I know what you've done. You've done school as much as it can be done. Now, for the good part of the interview. Ms. Granger, what would you expect to get from your employment if you were to be employed at Webley-Moore-McCall?" He sat back, waiting.

Hermione wasn't sure where to begin. The warm-up questions she had expected, the easy conversational queries about school life and grades, had been passed by and left in the dust. She was facing the meat of the interview and she hadn't said more than three words yet. She looked at the man opposite her, thought about the opportunity he represented. Then she recalled what Madame Routhe had said to her in the corridor between classes. This was only the first of what would likely be many job interviews. She decided to risk telling the truth - and telling it in her own way.

"Mister Katraz, do you know what Hogwarts students are really good at after six and a half years of study in a school for witchcraft and wizardry?"

Lou smiled. This was entertaining. The interviewee had turned the questioning around. "Six and a... let's see, in my seventh year, what was I... You know, the things I think I was best at involved pulling rather complicated pranks. My vic... well. My Targets were always other students. But that maintenance man that used to prowl the halls; he hated me. But I doubt that silly games were the point of your question. Let's just say I told you that I thought 'Casting Spells' was the answer, and we'll get back to your idea. What did you have in mind as the best skill of senior students?"

Hermione held up a hand, not willing to let the man dismiss his own comment. "No, please. Your answer is more apt than you may expect. Students do learn to play lots of silly games - and sometimes some of those games turn really nasty, and even dangerous. But there is one thing that first year students are exposed to, second year students practice, third year students are expected to be proficient at, and which - in one way or another - follows every student throughout his educational career, until he leaves school - successfully or not." Lou raised his eyebrows and nodded at Hermione to encourage her to go on. Whatever else she might have accomplished, she wasn't boring her audience yet. "What Hogwarts students spend seven years learning, practicing, polishing, and finally becoming absolute masters of is: turning hedgehogs into snuffboxes!"

Mister Katraz sat back in his chair and stared into space for a moment. Then he laughed out loud. "By Golpalott, Granger!" he guffawed, apparently unaware, or at least unconcerned, that he had called Hermione's last name without a 'Ms.' before it. "You're right! Why, if I had a hedgehog here and now, I bet I could turn 'im into a snuffbox with hardly a thought. It's funny. I haven't thought of that in years. But you've hit the point precisely. We turned a hedgerow full of hedgehogs into a warehouse full of snuffboxes practically from the moment we arrived at school. Extraordinary. But how does this impact on what you expect from working here?"

Hermione took a breath, not rushing to answer. This was her most important point, and she was determined to make it in as clear a fashion as possible. "Like a lot of students - girls, mostly - I followed a particular curve in my relationship with the hedgehog-to-snuffbox spell. At first, I thought it was cruel and unfair. No one ever asked the hedgehogs whether they would like to be snuffboxes instead. So I spent a lot of time after class, working for extra credit, turning snuffboxes back into the hedgehogs they once had been. I didn't tell my Transfiguration teacher - Professor McGonagall, you may remember her?" Hermione waited for the nod of agreement and the expected nostalgic smile before continuing. "But I would have done the work even if I had gotten no credit at all. I learned several other 'Undo' types of Transfigurations while I was at it: goblet back into rat; slippers back into bunnies; jewel back into toad; clock back into bird - just because I thought it was so mean that all of these living things would be forced into such inanimate shapes.

"But then, once I had learned to free the animals from their transfigured forms, I started to look at what we were creating when we trapped these animals this way. Personally, I drink most of my beverages from a tumbler. What use to me is a goblet? Or any eating utensil that retains fur or a tail from its original animal body?"

Mister Katraz chuckled and waved toward Hermione to encourage her to continue.

"It was the same for every Transfiguration we were expected to master. The value of a jewel lies in its rarity. Turning a pondful of frogs into emeralds defeats the purpose. They may be pretty, but they're valueless. Bunny slippers may be warm, but they're silly - slippers with long ears are for little children. And what little child would feel good wearing his pet rabbits once they had been turned into footwear? I can't think of a single one who would want to wear them. And every clock that has ever been made from a bird is at least a little bit 'flighty.' They run fast or slow - and they do so at random. They can't be counted on. They're not consistent. And consistency is the sole quality one expects from a timepiece. Snuffboxes may be the worst example of all. Snuff is simply unpleasant, and as I tried to make some sense of what we were being taught, I could find no one who used it. That's when I realized that we weren't simply abusing animals to learn to cast spells. The things we were turning the animals into were stupid and useless."

Hermione's heart beat a little faster. Her points were being made! Her arguments were getting through. Lou Katraz sat, head tilted to one side, considering what he had heard. Before he gathered his thoughts sufficiently to reply, Hermione gave him some more to think about.

"The other classes were no better. Charms? What good is a magical door lock when every first year student knows the counterspell to unlock it once again? I realize that many wizards don't want to be bothered to carry a key or remember a combination. But a good, metal padlock is more useful than any dozen hold-portal spells cast by any dozen members of the Wizengamot! And there are so many trivial, useless potions. Love potions. All right, they're not strictly legal, but that doesn't stop a dozen or more girls from brewing them every single year at school. Polyjuice. Hair restorative."

Lou had to interrupt when he heard this. "Wait just a moment, Ms. Granger. Ask a bald man about that last one and I'm sure you'll hear that hair restorer is neither trivial nor useless."

Hermione conceded the point gracefully, meeting the man's eyes with a direct look and returning to her topic. "So I'll grant you the last one. But seriously: did any of the potions you brewed in school have anything to do with what you did in your professional life? Or what you're doing in your researches here?"

"Not directly," Mister Katraz admitted. "But people often misinterpret what school does teach. Procedure. Method. Technique. If I didn't know how to get a cauldron going without burning the first ingredients I put into it, I would hardly be able to start working on a professional level, let alone travel the unexplored territory we like to work in here."

For a frightening moment, Hermione thought she had gone too far, and would be shut down. But the interviewer sat back, apparently returning the floor to her. She returned to her explanation without breaking eye contact.

"When I first went to school... no. No, that isn't right. When I first realized there was something like Hogwarts. When I got my letter, by owl. When I cross-examined my parents until they convinced me it was not some kind of trick they had played on me. When I was reassured by an actual wizard that there was magic and that I had the potential to perform magic and that there was a school that could teach magic. When we began to make plans for me to go away from home, to stay at school, to begin first year. I was thrilled. Thrilled in a way that I don't think anyone can understand who was not brought up Muggle. Who was raised believing that there was no real magic - that there could be no real magic. I was thrilled in a way that said my world had changed completely - forever. When I first went to school. When I felt the - literal - enchantment of the place. I said to myself, 'This will be what defines my life. This will be my life at the deepest level.' I felt that with magic - with this power that we are so fortunate to wield - I could do truly great things. I set myself to learn as much as I possibly could, because with the beauty and wonder and power that filled Hogwarts, and that ran through each and every one of my classmates, I was certain that I could change the world. End world hunger. Banish poverty. Eliminate disease. Promote the general welfare, advance education, prevent war and - in short - make the world into a place that was not horrible.

"But from the moment I got on the train that would take me to school, I saw people who had been scarred by war. I met people who were filled with hatred and bigotry. I had to attend my wonderful, magical school with people who felt that the only way they could advance was by pushing someone else back. And more than six years into my class work there, I'm still asking whether any of us might ever be taught to cast any spells that are actually useful!

"So that's what I expect from working here. I expect to do research in order to find ways in which to use magic that are actually useful."

There was a moment of silence as the interviewer waited to be sure that Hermione had finished her statement. "One cannot accuse you of biting off too little," Mister Katraz said with a warm smile. "One is tempted to point out, however, that your stated goals are end results - not the incremental steps that one must take in order to achieve such grand accomplishments. But those ideals do provide you with a guideline, and guidelines can provide clues toward formulating an outline of necessary results which can give you a list of necessary conditions which you might consider bringing about through magical means. A research director, reviewing your proposal, might assign you to work on a spell - or a charm, or a potion - that affects one tiny corner of one part of one step of your plan to address one of your big concerns. My question to such an idealistic young lady as yourself is: could you be content to work very hard over a long period of time on such a miniscule portion of the solution you crave to see?"

"So long as I was working toward something, and not... hedgehogs to snuffboxes."

Mister Katraz held her eyes for a long moment, searching. Then he smiled and waved a hand around the cluttered room. "This, as you have no doubt gathered, is my office. I come here to let my mind wander; to play, to get back some of the freedom that led to my early successes. That's why it's such a mess. Would you like to see some of our actual working areas?"

"I'd love it."

"Follow me. Watch your feet. These cords jump out and grab you."


	24. Twelve Months Later Harry

Harry Potter, still officially the Minister of Magic elect, sat in the office which had once been that of Cornelius Fudge - the office which still did not feel like his own. The room had been stripped of those personal items which had belonged to the former Minister: all the many knickknacks and mementos of a high-profile political career. And yet, there had been no personal touches applied to the room by its current occupant. There wasn't a single picture, diploma, trophy or commendation gracing the desk nor mounted upon the walls. There were no framed newspapers bearing headlines trumpeting the Minister-elect's victory. There was neither perch nor cage for a bird, though everyone who worked within the Ministry knew that the Minister-elect kept a great snowy owl. There wasn't even a single reminder of Quidditch, not so much as a Keeper's glove or a Beater's bat.

What stood prominently in the Minister-elect's office was a pair of great bookshelves, one covering the wall behind the desk, the other covering the wall to the left of whoever sat at that desk. These shelves were packed tightly with books, except for the topmost shelf of each, which were carved in scalloping curves, each curve holding a scroll. The books and scrolls were varied; some historical, some theoretical, some critical in nature. But all of them addressed the same subject: the government of Wizarding Britain.

The Minister-elect had read many of those volumes during the past year. But at the moment, his attention was focused on a completely blank sheet of parchment, spread flat against the desktop.

Harry folded the parchment lengthwise, carefully matching the corners before pressing the fold flat, then running his thumbnail along the crease, listening to the hollow sound of the parchment settling into its new configuration. He watched critically as the top portion of the sheet rose and curled slightly, the parchment resisting the fold. Nodding absently in concentration, Harry picked up the sheet and worked the page back and forth, using the fold as a hinge, weakening its resistance to its new shape. He pressed the folded sheet to the surface of the desk again and let go, noting with satisfaction that it remained nearly flat. Then, with elbows braced on the broad desktop, hands moving slowly so as not to put a crease in the wrong place, Harry made a triangular fold in the end of each half of the doubled sheet, creasing each with a satisfying 'sssssip' of thumbnail on parchment.

After several more folds had shaped the once-flat sheet into a streamlined shape with a very sharp nose and swept back wings, he held it suspended above his head, the fingers of one hand barely pressing against the edges of its wings, his other hand poised below as though to catch the parchment construct as it fell. He allowed the plane to drop from his grip, but as it gently drifted toward his lower hand, Harry cast a subtle spell, causing the air to waft gently upward to hold his parchment creation aloft.

The Minister-elect had been working on this particular spell for several weeks by this time. Previously, when he had attempted it, his planes would tilt forward, pivoting until their noses pointed directly toward the ground. Then their streamlined shapes would cut through the gently rising air, and they would crash. But this time, Harry thought he had gotten the balance just right. He wiggled the fingers of both hands, ever so slightly altering the airflow, keeping the sharp nose of the parchment aircraft high, buffeting the plane's wings with sufficient force to hold the construction aloft...

"Mister Minister?"

Harry started, eyes wide. He straightened, sitting bolt upright in the heavy wooden chair behind his wide, empty desk. The parchment plane turned nose-down and dove into the hardwood floor, landing with a 'thup' that was all Harry needed to hear to know that his plane now had a crumpled nose and would no longer fly straight. Harry felt his airflow spell dissipate, its last gentle wisps of wind brushing his face before the atmosphere returned to stillness. Taking a deep breath to compose himself, Harry brushed his hands down the front of his robe, a deep red formal dress garment trimmed in gold, nearly as gaudy as the uniform he had once worn as a Quidditch Seeker. He looked up at his Chief of Staff, Deckard Constantine, who stood in the office doorway, holding a rolled sheet of parchment.

Constantine pulled his lips into a thin line, an expression that struck many observers as one of impatience or even contempt. Harry had learned over the past year that such a slight tensing of his Chief of Staff's mouth was as close as Deckard ever came to a grin.

"Victory again," Constantine reported smoothly, lifting the parchment a little before crossing the room to place the roll on the Minister-elect's desk. Deckard immediately took a long step back from the desk. He was a very tall man, and if he had stood any closer while his boss had remained seated, Harry would have had to crane his neck back awkwardly to meet his chief's eyes. Constantine's unobtrusive positioning of himself comfortably within Harry's view was more than merely polite. It was a subtle acknowledgement that Harry was the office-holder, the man in charge, while Deckard was subordinate to him.

Harry sighed, trying to keep the sound of it as quiet as possible. He missed his lessons with Narcissa Mal... that is, Narcissa Black. Or whatever name it was she was using since leaving France. It was just such constant attention to detail that she had been teaching Harry to notice... and to employ. Harry knew that his education in such matters – especially now that he was supposed to be a politician - was woefully inadequate. At his side nearly every single day was the clearest example of how much he needed to develop those skills. Harry was aware of Deckard Constantine's smooth, effective application of the principles Narcissa Black had espoused. But that didn't mean that Harry himself could apply those principles, or gain as much information from limited observation as could his Chief of Staff.

Constantine flashed another of his swift, hard-mouthed grins. "I daresay, if the history of Muggle politicians were more familiar to our own people, you would likely be known as the Wizarding world's Winston Churchill."

Harry scowled. Was this another test? Was Deckard probing to determine whether Harry had paid attention while still in Muggle school? "I know who that is, you know."

Constantine's shoulders shook very slightly beneath his robes, betraying a slight chuckle that was as much laughter as Harry had ever his Chief of Staff express. "I believe that most of us in the upper reaches of government are at least somewhat familiar with Muggle history," Constantine purred, his voice tinged with just enough sarcasm to let Harry know that he had missed the point of his chief's comments once again. "We must know about them precisely so that we may continue to be able to prevent their becoming aware of us." Deckard paused to let that moment of scolding his employer pass. "And in fact," he went on in a lighter tone, "among the veterans of Ministry service, it is not the old ex-secretary of the Admiralty to whom you are being compared. It is, in fact, a pair of American Presidents - one in particular, who served about a half-century ago - who had an extraordinary period of success in office, which became known as his 'honeymoon' with his legislature. Your accomplishments, however, are even greater than either of theirs. Both of those men enjoyed the advantage of being generally accepted as the actual holders of their office at the time of their successes!"

Harry's lip curled. "If the lawmakers are so in love with me," he sneered, "why am I still coming to work every day like... this?" He spread his hands to indicate his entire office, but pointedly looked at one corner of his desk, from which he had removed the "In" box nearly six months previously. At that time, he had thrown the empty box, along with the similarly empty "Out" box into an equally empty desk drawer, promising to return them to service "the moment any actual work comes 'In' for me to do!" He had not had the opportunity to retrieve either of those boxes since that moment.

Deckard seemed completely unfazed by the Minister-elect's outburst. He regarded Harry seriously and answered quite calmly. "While the elected officials of this government – and, more importantly, the voters of this nation - do love you, the courts do not. Judges - good judges in particular - live to interpret rules. And you offend them. To your disadvantage, you especially offend the best and most influential of them. You offend them because your case contradicts, circumvents and even makes a mockery of so many of the rules that our judges have come to trust and to depend upon. It is worth noting that despite this general attitude toward you amongst the judiciary, you have not lost any of the most important court decisions regarding your presence here in this office. Nor has your right to serve as Minister been denied as part of any written opinion. What has frustrated the courts is that no judge has been able to formulate a decision regarding that right in such a fashion that the court could present it in a logical - and legal - manner that would not immediately offer you the opportunity for an undeniable appeal. Hence, each judge who has considered your case has 'Passed It Upward' to the next most prestigious judicial body. The senior jurists of our nation are debating your case now, and so far as we can tell, they are as baffled by it as all of those who have considered it previously. We are definitely keeping them busy with motions and..."

"What good does it do to keep them busy?" Harry fumed.

Deckard looked sternly at the boy. ('Young Man!' he reminded himself for the hundredth time. 'This is the Minister-elect, the hero of our people and possibly the most powerful mage in the world. Young. Man. Not. Boy.' Deckard knew he had not convinced himself, especially as he watched Harry glaring at him with all the burning fury of a petulant teenager.)

"The good it does is to keep you here at this desk," Constantine stated firmly. "And to keep others away from this desk. In particular, to keep Cornelius Fudge away from it. It also, despite the uncertainty surrounding your legal right to hold this office, allows you to continue to do your work. One portion of which lies right there." He extended a finger toward the scroll on the desk. "A victory, as I said. And I mean that the passage of this bit of legislation is a victory not only for you, but for our nation in general. This is not the sort of thing that gets the general population emotionally worked up, I'm sorry to say. But it is the kind of important work that government has to do when that government has survived for so long as has ours."

Harry waited, face still frozen in a mask of defiance. He fully expected his Chief of Staff's report to continue. He thought that a full description of the new law would be forthcoming, along with an explanation of why that particular bit of work was so necessary to a long-standing government. So Harry continued to glare in silence. Deckard Constantine stood there impassively. After a few moments, Harry realized that his Chief of Staff was not going to say anything more. Harry felt the tension throughout his body. He felt the shape of rage contorting his face. Very suddenly, he felt like a complete idiot. His face flushed bright red as he reached for the parchment on his desk. As soon as he did so, Deckard continued his explanation.

"This is, on the surface of it, nothing but a repeal of one of the old pure-blood privileges. In specific, it concerns right-of-way for constructing carriage paths across easements bordering public roads. In a much broader sense, it provides a new precedent for considering property-use and property-rights issues that puts all citizens of the Wizarding community on an equal footing, without the presumptive preference for pure-bloods that has been written into our laws for over three hundred years. A minor item, so it seems. But so rich in potential."

As he completed his explanation, Deckard stood energetically, poised on the balls of his feet as though ready to pounce into physical battle with the old pure-blood laws. Harry unrolled the parchment and began to read. Within a few seconds, he murmured, "I see what you mean about not getting people emotional. This is..."

"Dry? Dull?" Constantine suggested.

Harry dropped the parchment onto his desktop. "Dead boring."

Constantine shrugged. "And yet it must not be allowed to be perceived as such by the voters, especially since it will be considered part of the torrent of far-reaching and forward-looking bills that Minister Potter shepherded into law during his first astounding year in office. It will be made to seem more... vital, shall we say?... by the time you deliver your speech to the Herbologists' Convocation tomorrow night."

Harry groaned. "I have none of the power and all of the irritants of public office, haven't I? I can't sign anything, stamp anything or even make any official proclamations about anything as the real, true, duly-elected Minister of Magic - but I still have to cut the ribbons at the grand openings, make the speeches at the... what is it? Convention? Confustication?"

"Convocation. Of Herbologists. Tomorrow night. And if you don't want your political base to deteriorate the way Cornelius Fudge's did, you will make the speeches, cut the ribbons, thank your volunteers - personally and sincerely - and keep your face before the public's very easily-distracted eye every opportunity that presents itself."

"Right," Harry agreed without enthusiasm, then his mood brightened. "That's for tomorrow, then. Now, it's nearly lunch. Do you know where Snape is?"

Deckard Constantine's face went completely blank. His voice was uninflected as he replied. "No." Harry looked a question at him. The Chief of Staff showed no emotion as he explained, "The Professor and I do not communicate well."

"Ridiculous," Harry pronounced. His voice was as firm and commanding as one might expect from the Minister of Magic elect. But his face wore a pout more appropriate to a small boy unable to find a favorite plaything. "The two men most important to me... to my life... unable to work together at all. I know it's true, I've seen it. I just don't underst... that is, I do understand it. I think. Which hardly matters. It doesn't do me any good to have the two of you at odds, is all. What about Remus? Have you seen him?"

Constantine lost some of his reserve with the change of subject, but his voice was no warmer. Instead, it held a warning note. "Mister Lupin is in Muggle London. Again. He seems to prefer it there. That causes me some concern."

Harry looked confused. "Remus survived in Muggle London undetected by us or them for years. He's used to it. He probably feels more at home there. So what's the big deal about him going home; living wherever he wants?"

"I believe that there may have been some unfinished business left behind when Mister Lupin rejoined you during your preparation to face..." Deckard's face betrayed a grimace as he forced himself to say the name. "Voldemort. I fear that Mister Lupin's forays into the Muggle city are motivated by a desire to close out some of that business."

"Remus is a good man."

Deckard met Harry's eye and held it for a long moment, making sure he had the Minister-elect's complete attention before continuing. "He is also - now, thanks to you - a werewolf in Animagus' clothing. His near-instantaneous transformations, coupled with his independence from the lunar cycle give him a tremendous weapon to wield if his motivation were revenge or punishment. And the level and quality of mental capacity he retains while transformed make him a very dangerous..."

Harry stood, face once again burning red, but this time from anger rather than embarrassment. "Stop!" he barked. "Remus is my friend. He is a good man, a kind, caring man, and one of the most important men alive - both to me and to the current good fortune of this country in being free from the threat of Voldemort."

Constantine's voice never rose, never wavered. "And he has also confessed to using his previously uncontrolled transformations to destroy certain Muggle individuals who he considered to be unfit to live. That is not simply murder - which we might find justification for in any number of ways. It is interfering with Muggles by distinctly magical means - which endangers our entire society and everyone in it. Our Ministry apparently failed to detect those crimes, and the Muggle authorities - whatever they made of the killings - apparently did not think to start a werewolf hunt based on the evidence they found. Nevertheless, using magic to perform..."

Harry's voice was cold as he interrupted his Chief of Staff once again. "Do you have any reason to presume that Remus has killed anyone in the past year? Or that he has even changed form within Muggle London? At all?"

Deckard's face fell. To Harry, who had become used to searching his chief's generally unexpressive countenance for any trace of feeling, the man seemed disappointed, even sad. Harry's heart lightened. He was sure that Constantine's accusations would turn out to be baseless. But Deckard's words did not follow Harry's expectations at all. "A number of items have come to my attention. They all point to a single conclusion: that Mister Lupin has been involved in instances of vigilantism. Not only once, but on several occasions."

Harry felt cold. His voice croaked as he tried to form words. "These... uh... items. Could they have... I mean... would anyone...?"

Constantine appeared to be contemplating something in mid-air several inches away from Harry's head. "I hope that what I have found would be meaningless to anyone not specifically looking for evidence of this nature. But our Improper Use of Magic Office does habitually look for such things. Not to mention the regular teams of Aurors who, with the demise of—" another barely-perceptible hesitation "—Voldemort - and his organization - have more time to devote to other types... other categories... of crimes than those of Death Eaters. It would not help you to be accused of concealing the serious criminal activities of one of your associates, especially if those activities included the use of magic among Muggles. And murder, of course."

Harry struggled to come up with a confident-sounding reply. "Um," was the best he could do. He thought a moment, took another breath, said nothing. Finally, very softly, he said, "I'll talk to him." Then, practically under his breath, "As soon as I can find him."

Deckard Constantine nodded deeply, practically describing a bow. "Very good, Sir," he murmured. Then, backing quickly out of the office and turning to go, he added, "Your luncheon companion has arrived."

Seconds later, Severus Snape walked into the office and scowled at the young man who sat behind the desk, staring blankly into space.

"Has the man left you stunned, or were you planning to spend your afternoon mindlessly goggling at the far wall?" the Professor inquired, his voice even more acidic than usual.

"Hmmm?" Harry murmured in response, still apparently lost in thought. In a moment, he collected his thoughts and met Snape's stare directly.

"Professor, I would like you to do me a service. I realize this may be somewhat uncomfortable for you, but I would appreciate it if you would sit in on my staff meetings."

Snape inspected Harry as though looking for signs of a head injury. "Staff meetings? Am I not present when you and Mister Constantine... and Mister Lupin, when he is around... discuss your plans? Have I not been, in fact, since your decision to leave Hogwarts and take up your adult responsibilities, practically your only dependable advisor? Am I not your only councillor who can be counted upon to be available to respond - at any time - to your need for information or guidance?" Snape shook his head with a scowl. "I would have thought that if I were not present, any meeting in which you took part could not properly be considered a 'staff' meeting at all."

Harry considered the man standing before him in disbelief. 'I've hurt his feelings,' he thought, astounded that he could even form such a thought regarding a man that, just a short time ago, had appeared to have no feelings whatsoever. 'He's not only insulted, he's...' Harry thought quickly, but could come up with no other description that fit so well with what he was seeing. 'He's hurt. Emotionally wounded. He thinks I've demoted him, or that I don't appreciate what he's done for me.'

Harry spoke quickly, hoping to avoid any further misunderstanding. "No, not those. Of course you're there when I'm trying to figure out what I'm supposed to be doing. I meant, I'd like you to sit in on the meetings with Deckard and the rest of the office staff here."

If Harry had expected his explanation to mollify Snape, he was sorely disappointed. The Professor's eyes widened as his lip curled. "What, sit around for the discussion of the monthly orders of Spellotape? Be part of the fact-finding mission to get to the bottom of disappearing quills? Discuss the preferred brand of coffee for the employees' break room? Though, the truth is, that with the swill they brew here in lieu of actual coffee..."

"Please, Professor."

Snape stopped speaking, examining the young man before him. Harry had matured a great deal in the last two years. He was nearly unrecognizable as the self-centered brat who had imposed himself onto the potions class some seven years ago. The Minister-elect was likely the single individual with the most sheer magical power in the entire world. Snape looked askance at him and murmured, "Yes?"

Harry cast a quick look toward his office door, simply to make sure no one was lurking somewhere easily detected. He knew that if anyone really wanted to spy on his private conversations, there were any number of powerful spells that might allow this. But Harry was unwilling to live in a morass of paranoia. He saw no one near his door, and so spoke his mind directly. "Professor, I think I may be losing my grip on my own administration. Bills are being proposed - and passed, using my name as endorsement - that are surprises to me when they become law... that, honestly, I have no real understanding of. It's all too fast, and too much for me, and I need to get some kind of control over it all again, and... and... you're the only person I can trust."

Harry was watching Snape's face carefully, trying to remember some of the things he had learned from Narcissa Black. He thought he saw a number of emotions expressed in Snape's countenance, though each one barely registered, and none of them took more than a fraction of a second. Was that shock, disbelief, horror, and even fear that showed, however briefly?

Whether or not those emotions had been exposed, in an instant, Snape had reestablished his cool exterior, revealing nothing. "All right, Mister Potter, if you insist," the Professor sighed. "I will sit with your office workers and do what I can to bring you... whatever advantage it is you expect to gain from my presence in those proceedings."

Harry smiled and stood, immediately cheerful once again. "Great. Thank you, Professor Snape, I'm sure you'll do me a lot of good. Where should we have lunch?"


	25. Twelve Months Later Muggles

Sydney Pleasant walked briskly along the soft, leaf-covered shoulder that edged Stoneybrook Lane. He wore blue sweatpants with a grey stripe down the side of each leg, a grey muscle shirt and a zipper-front sweatjacket to match the pants. His shoes were heavy-treaded walking sneakers. He had sweatbands at each wrist and around his forehead. Slung around his waist was a grey fanny pack, stuffed with several heavy items. Though it fit him well, Sydney had contempt for the outfit and all that it represented. 'The sportwear of the modern posh class,' he called it, though he was sure that the posh class themselves would be unaware of how much a uniform such exercise clothing was and how obvious they were while wearing it. He was pretty sure that the most characteristic of them wouldn't even realize that they were the modern posh class.

Wankers.

Sydney had spent what he considered a ridiculous amount on the ensemble he now wore. That is, if its only purpose was to absorb his sweat as he power-walked through the oak-lined streets of this pleasantly well-to-do neighborhood, it would have been ridiculous. Since it served a much more important purpose, he had accepted the necessity of the expense, even while bridling at how easy it was for the modern posh to stroll into the marketplace, lay down a credit card, and pay the cost of the sport wear - plus credit card interest! - for their entire family. He could imagine one of them hesitating before the clerk rang up the purchase, and calling out to his family, "Wait - don't we need contrasting colors for alternate days? Quick, pick up duplicates of everything in red!" then turning to the next person in line and waving them forward. "Go ahead, we have a few more selections to make." Sydney was certain it happened every day. The entire prospect made him sick.

Every few minutes or so, as he walked along the curving residential street, a car would speed past Sydney. Every time one did, Sydney would nod and raise a hand with two fingers extended in a sort of a parody of a scout salute. This made him look friendly, and made it seem that he fit into the whole neighborhood scene, but more importantly, his raised hand and bowed head obscured his face. Let any of the passing drivers testify that they had seen a man power-walking while dressed in fashion sweats. He could imagine the police response to that.

"You mean, one of your neighbors?"

"I don't know. I couldn't see his face?"

"But he was dressed in fashion sweats?"

"Oh, yes. Fanny pack. Matching jacket."

"But were they good ones?"

"The best! Top of the line. I was considering a set like it for myself."

"So he was one of your neighbors, then. Fine. Sorry to bother you."

And with that, any official consideration of the mysterious neighborhood jogger would wash away. But when he considered the prospect rationally, he had to admit that none of these furious speedsters passing by would ever be questioned - or, if they were, would never recall seeing anyone. He could be dressed in a fully-feathered chicken suit or gleaming full plate armor, it wouldn't matter. All he would be to these frantic drivers would be another roadside point to get past, as quickly as possible. They drove their 'Pursuits of Excellence,' their 'Pinnacles of Engineering' and their 'Ultimate Driving Machines' with breathless desperation, putting kilometers beneath their floorboards as though each klick were a step on their stairway to Heaven. Sydney was convinced they were propelling themselves headlong toward Hell. Sydney thought that he might be able to arrest some of them following their meandering path and send them on a more direct course, removing the irritation of them from the lives of rest of the world while helping them reach their goal more efficiently.

At least, this was his fervent hope.

For today, at least, he felt confident in his faith, because he had a specific goal, a particular target, a chosen subject (or, more precisely, set of subjects) that would plummet to Hell quite nicely, once removed from their restrictive mortal coils. Family of three: Arrogant father, vain mother, clueless daughter. All full of themselves and certain of their divine right to rule the world in which they lived. More modern posh pissant bits of aristocratic trash.

Sydney stopped his walk and grabbed one foot to stretch his thigh. He listened to his heartbeat, timed his breathing. Too fast, too wild. He concentrated, invoking the discipline that had allowed him to survive for as long as he had in the place where he lived, a cheerless slum of London, as far from the lush beauty of this "Storybook" Lane as could be imagined. He forced himself to remain composed. In control. Efficient. He felt his will exert its power over his flesh, slowing his breathing, calming his heart. He grabbed his other foot, stretched his opposite thigh. No cars passed. No other joggers were in sight. No one had seen him. He was alone. Good.

There would be items to harvest from his targets' home once he had sucked the life from it. The tremendous wealth represented by the house itself would have to be abandoned, unfortunately. His actions within that edifice this night would be lIke eating an oyster and gaining its pearl, only to leave the gross shell behind. The sad fact in this case was that the "shell" might as well have been solid gold, and would be passed on to some other undeserving, pathetic shower of cunts... But that could not be helped. There would be some profit, and some fun, some rare excitement and a bit of revenge on the world for being the way it was. It was hard to imagine much better than that.

Sydney loitered a bit, watching and listening. On his own street at home, he couldn't have gone more than a few seconds without traffic passing by, even in the coldest hour of the middle of the night. Here, he could have lain in the road for a kip without worry. His was the only human life outside of the magnificent homes behind their thick fences and their tall oaks.

He stepped between two of the oak trees and was over the fence behind them in the space of two breaths. Easy.

Sydney crossed to the house and slipped around the left side, watching the windows for evidence of motion. None in the front rooms. On to the bedrooms. There! The young princess of the house, with her music collection. He crept close to the window. Magazine spread open on the bed, various recordings scattered about. Mother's voice, calling. The daughter's whining reply, its thin tone cutting through the double-paned insulating windows. Mother again. The girl stalking out of her room, then back in, slapping the light switch to return the room to its evening dimness, then stalking back out again - hesitating - then slamming her door before stomping down the hallway. Dinner hour for the posh. Perfect.

As he waited, making sure that the girl would not return to the room immediately, Sydney tapped his fanny pack to reassure himself of the presence of three crucial items: duct tape, gag, knife. He smiled and slid open the window.

Graham Penzey, master of the house, stretched and yawned, automatically running his hand over his belly as he did so. He was a little flabbier than he had been in his prime, but he could hardly be called fat. Dinners such as that night's didn't help, perhaps. Good marbling on his fine steak, plenty of butter, bottle of wine, generous dessert. Still, to Hell with the food police. A good meal every night was part of what he worked for. He looked across the room to where his wife sat on the couch, staring at telly. He tried to gauge her mood. They would probably not be making love that night, he thought. Elizabeth was wearing her 'not interested' face. When faced with that expression, anything he suggested would be met with a shrug, a sneer and a dismissal. Especially if he suggested they go upstairs together. Intimacy had been particularly lacking of late between the two of them - and not just sex, but any kind of togetherness, any kind of shared... anything.

Part of the problem was their daughter. TIff was becoming a right brat, and irritating as that was, neither he nor Elizabeth really wanted to do anything about it. The girl was still their best weapon against one another, and it was certain that any discipline offered by one parent would be condemned as child abuse by the other, then countered with attention and indulgence which would, in effect, 'spoil' the child. Tiffany seemed to be very much aware of this situation, and perfectly willing to use it to her advantage. The results were becoming hard to live with.

That very evening, Tiffany had come to dinner as though the family's nightly feast were a punishment. And once she had sloped off to her room after dessert, they hadn't heard a peep from her - at least not from her voice, nothing involving clear communication. For a while she had sounded as though she were throwing her furniture around, though. Graham had almost gone back to speak with the girl. It was one thing to throw around her ridiculous magazines, her musical recordings, her stuffed toys - what harm could a flung teddy bear do? But if she were planning to graduate to tossing about her desk and chair, well, that would have to stop this minute. But it did stop, of a sudden, just before Graham would had been forced to assert his parental authority. He would never admit to anyone how relieved he was by that reprieve.

One more glance at Elizabeth, another pang of frustration. He turned toward his office/library. "I'm going to do some work."

"Mmm."

"I may be at it a while," he added, not that his wife would care, but simply to irritate her, to interrupt whatever dialog the telly offered.

"Mmm."

Graham walked down the short hallway to his private refuge within his home, his workplace in which he could shut himself away if he felt like it. He entered the room and stopped one step beyond the doorway, simply appreciating this place which was his own. Heavy draperies over the wide window. Lamps made specifically to shed the mellow glow that was best for reading. Books, one of his most serious vices, crammed onto the shelves two and three deep until they were practically falling off the edges. Graham didn't really feel like working. He thought about what books he had recently acquired, and whether there was a volume anywhere among these stacks that he hadn't already read twice or more.

And then something very curious happened. Cold entered his back and pierced him to his core. A pure, elemental cold like nothing he had ever felt from wind or ice passed through his skin, brought a sensation of freezing to his belly, and pushed him forward. He twisted as he fell and landed on his side, facing the library doorway. For a confused instant, he thought he saw his own shadow fleeing from him.

Was this death? Was this the sensation the body sent to inform the life within that it was time to go? Had he seen his own shadow depart, or was that a metaphor his unconscious mind had provided to let him know he was dying? If this was death, would some part of him go on? Would he be welcomed into Heaven, though he had not believed in it since he was twelve? Might he go to Hell, which he had feared all his life, imagining the tortures that would be so easy for the powers of darkness, once they had him? Would he hover about the scene as a ghost? He knew there were no such things as ghosts, but as he lay there helplessly, the idea of his psychic essence floating around as a glowing phantom seemed to make so much sense that it was hard to dismiss out of hand.

Elizabeth's voice: "What are you doing in there?" Graham couldn't tell if the question was directed at him or at his daughter. The annoyance with which his wife most frequently spoke to either of them was the same. Graham tried to draw breath to reply. He could not. He forced some air into his lungs, very slowly. It hurt. He wanted to scream. He would have needed much more breath to do so. It would have hurt too badly. He held the precious air in his lungs and kept silent.

Elizabeth's voice sounded again. This time, she was not annoyed. She was furious - and frightened. Incoherent demands tumbled out of her mouth as she interrupted herself over and over. "What the Hell are... Who do you... Don't You Dare Do... Bastard! Graham! Graham! Fuck! You God-Damned..."

The sound of hand hitting face, hard. Elizabeth's voice stopped. Graham tried to rise. Pain stopped him. The cold was spreading within his belly. He had an idea of what was happening, now. He had been stabbed. Knocked to the floor as a blade entered him and cut him inside. He could feel the bleeding. The fleeing shadow had been the man who had stabbed him. And now Elizabeth was with the shadow-man. Not shouting any more. That was not good.

He looked up to see someone in the library doorway. No doubt the shadow-man. He was holding a knife in one hand, and Elizabeth's hands above her head with his other. There was something silvery around Elizabeth's wrists. Stupid-looking. Out of place. Tape? Elizabeth was on her knees with a trickle of red running down the side of her neck. "Blood?" Graham gasped.

"I nicked her ear to let her know I was serious. It's nothing, posh man. Less than a piercing for one of her dainty little earrings. But it could get serious. I could cut her throat with this." He brandished the knife, twisting it so it would catch the light. Had the room been more brightly lighted, the blade would likely have sparkled. It looked highly polished, and very sharp.

The shadow-man put his knife blade beneath Elizabeth's blouse and pulled upward, tearing through a shoulder seam, licking his lips and staring hard at the skin revealed beneath the cut he had made.

The knife went back down, and the shadow-man seemed to be thinking over whether to cut more cloth, or to cut Elizabeth herself. He jerked suddenly, dropped his knife and let go of the bindings around Elizabeth's wrists as, behind the heavy draperies, the library's window exploded.

The sweat-suited assailant took a step backward as the draperies reached into the room as though blown by hurricane winds. Out from the thrashing cloth flew a shape, as dark and powerful as if the very concept of weight had taken on flesh. The thing of darkness crashed into the shadow-man, driving him to the ground.

Graham gasped, then grimaced in pain. With his eyes clenched tightly in agony, he heard sounds - wet, slurping noises as of pigs feeding. Then Elizabeth screamed. Graham's eyes opened wide and he saw his wife scrabbling backward, pushing with her heels, sliding on her butt. The black shape was gone. The shadow-man lay on the floor, twitching, his throat gone, his head nearly severed from his shoulders.

Graham saw his wife look at him, saw her eyes go wide, heard her sobbing his name. Then she was biting at the tape around her wrists. She found an edge, made a tear, pulled, struggled, twisted her wrists against one another and shrieked in frustration. There was a sound from the living room, very faint. Three telephone tones, all the same. 999.

"There's another one in the house," Graham whispered, closing his eyes and preparing to sleep for a long, long time.

"I don't think so," his wife said angrily, accompanied by the sound of tearing tape. Another sound made no sense for a moment, then Graham realized that someone had pulled a drapery down from its runner. A moment later, he could feel a heavy pad being pressed into his back. The pressure caused him pain, but he wasn't about to protest. For one thing, it would hurt too much. For another, he thought he might be bleeding to death. Pressing on his wound might slow that process by a little bit, at least. And he thought he had heard someone calling for help. Help would be nice.

Graham drifted off into dreams.

The next morning two of London's more sensational tabloids carried the same story, though from very different perspectives. One's headline read "Super Dog Saves Family of Three." The other's read "Satanic Hound's Feast of Evil." The second story did explain that the 'Evil' in the feast was a home invader who had assaulted an entire family before having his throat torn out. And the first story did admit that the 'Super Dog' killed a man and ran away before anyone got a good look at it. But those editorial niceties hardly mattered. No one who read the accounts in those papers believed either story, anyway.

...with, perhaps, one exception.

At ten minutes of eight o'clock of the morning on which those tabloids were put out for sale, a tall, regal-looking man dressed in a severe but exquisitely tailored black suit approached the newsstand operated by Stuart "Slug" Thurdy. Slug prided himself on his knack for knowing what any given customer would likely purchase, even if he were completely unfamiliar with that individual. Slug had the dark-suited man pegged for a copy of the Financial Times, at least, and possibly one of the newspapers that boasted good international coverage. He offered a quiet 'Good Morning' as the man stopped in front of the stand, but there was no response.

'Fine,' Slug thought. 'Some people don't care for the mornings, much.' He cut open another bundle of the Times and let the man shop.

It took a little longer than Slug had expected. The man scanned every newspaper headline, lifting the corners of several editions to check the headlines under the fold. Finally, he nodded once and chose the two sensational offerings. He paid for his purchases, tucked the lurid papers under his arm and strode away toward the railway station. Slug watched him leave, wondering what had motivated the man's unexpected choices. A mere score of steps away, the man turned away from the street and disappeared into an alleyway.

'Hadn't thought he'd do that,' Slug mused. 'Doesn't look like the type to want to get his clothes dirty.'

There was a dull, booming sound from the alley. 'Too late for him to save on dry cleaning, then,' Slug laughed to himself. 'Sounds like he fell over a dustbin.'

Remus Lupin stood under the flow of hot water from the mineral-stained showerhead and stared unseeingly at the dull grey tiles of the shower stall. He ran the tips of his fingers down his right side, searching for the source of the nagging irritant in the skin above his lowest rib. He touched the sharp splinter, winced slightly, then very carefully drew out the shard of glass. He absently placed it on the high windowsill next to several others he had removed from the same general area, then turned to allow the shower spray to wash over the wound. As his skin reddened from the temperature, only a tiny drop of blood seeped from the cut. Remus continued to search for the rest of the glass shards he could feel in his side.

"Three more to go," he murmured, then almost immediately repeated himself, more insistently this time, as though to keep someone else from interrupting him. "Three more to go."

Remus shuddered as a name flashed across his mind for the hundredth time since he had stepped into the shower. Sydney Pleasant. Remus felt as though he could practically hear someone saying the name; could nearly see letters spelling it out. Sydney Pleasant. Remus felt sick to his stomach just thinking of the name, and even worse thinking of what had happened that night.

"Three more to go," Remus said again, in an effort to silence his own inner voice, to turn off the slide show playing before his mind's eye. It did him no good.

He told himself there was nothing more to worry about. Sydney Pleasant would hurt no one ever again. No one else would suffer from Sydney's sadistic urges. No more lives would be lost to Sydney's unpredictable rages or bloodthirsty lust. Sydney would never rape again, would never hurt and kill and steal and destroy and leave families weeping. Sydney would do none of those things because Remus had put his jaws around Sydney's throat and had used his supernatural strength to sever the vital conduits for blood and air that allowed Sydney's body to continue to function. Remus' lip curled at a vicious thought: Sydney had died as he had lived, creating fear and destroying things. The gushing of blood from his severed arteries had terrified two people while ruining their carpet.

Remus threw up, letting the shower wash away what little was produced. He had not eaten that night. He had certainly made it a point not to feast on the flesh of Sydney Pleasant. But the mere thought of his teeth sinking into Sydney's throat disgusted him. Not because of the act of biting. Not because he had used his Wolf form to kill a man. Not because of the fact that he had hunted Sydney, following his scent far from the London neighborhood they shared. It was Sydney himself - not just what the man did, but what he was - that produced such revulsion in Remus.

Sydney was, to all appearances, a normal human being. He was not cursed. He had not been bitten by a supernatural creature. He had not been forced to transform himself into a monster. He was not a slave to the implacable Lunar cycle. And yet, Sydney chose to give himself to the Beast... not just once every twenty-eight days, but every day of his life. He planned his crimes. He savored his excesses. He had made his bestial existence his identity, the mark of pride that set him apart from other men. Remus trembled as he thought of anyone choosing to surrender himself to the Beast, giving up a human life for an endless round of blinding rage and destructive gluttony.

Remus ran his hands over his sides, sluicing water away from the reddened skin. His hot water was already beginning to run colder, but he thought that he had gotten the worst of the glass slivers out, anyway. He turned the shower off, reaching out to twist the handles harder as the showerhead continued to drip. As the dripping slowed to the point at which experience indicated it would - probably... eventually - stop, he slapped aside the brittle, old plastic curtain, rattling the wire rings from which it hung. With water still running off of him, he stepped out onto the faded linoleum.

Remus looked at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Heavy condensation turned his image into an unfocused, glowing mass. "Appropriate," he mumbled, thinking, 'neither one thing nor the other. Not wizard, not angel. Not - at least - until I'm done with this; finished with what I have to do in London. Then I'll go back and help the Cub. I'll be a wizard in a way I never had the chance to be so long as I was cursed with the Wolf. I'll be a good pack elder to Harry. I'll build a life. It's not far out of my reach, now. Only three more to go.'

There were three sharp raps on his front door. A voice drifted in, "Mister Lupin? Mister Lupin, are you there?"

Remus sighed and pushed the thought of Sydney Pleasant out of his mind. The voice calling to him was that of his neighbor, Chelsea Landover. Fortyish and divorced, Chelsea was invariably pleasant, and had that golden quality in a neighbor: her flat was always quiet. There were only two drawbacks to having the next flat over from hers: Remus had unclogged a drain for her a few weeks previously, and now the woman thought of him as her personal hero of domestic repairs; and she had never twigged that Remus was not interested in becoming romantically involved with her. As a result, there was an awkward one-sided flirtation in which Chelsea seemed convinced that all she needed to do was to overcome Remus' inexplicable shyness. He wrapped his towel around his waist and went to answer the door.

"Ms. Landover." Remus called his greeting as he began to turn the doorknob, before his guest could see him at all.

Her reply sparkled with playful cheer. "Please, call me...oh. Oh." Her eyes first focused on his chest, then darted swiftly to his bare legs and bare arms before coming to rest on the towel.

"What can I do for you?" Remus asked smoothly, covering Chelsea's sudden speechlessness.

"Um. Well. It's my flat. The wall socket. It's gone dead."

Remus put a hand against the door frame and leaned casually, eliciting a soft intake of breath from his visitor. "Couldn't you call the Manager?" Remus' tone was gentle, but firm. He was clearly not interested in doing electrical repairs in his neighbor's flat.

"He seems to be on holiday. Again," Chelsea replied, pursing her lips in annoyance to let Remus know that, far from travelling on a vacation trip, the manager assigned to their block of rental flats was once again too drunk to come to his door or answer a ring.

"You do have room light...?"

"Oh. In the bedroom. The kitchen. The bath. There are the overheads. But in the living room there was only the lamp, and without that it's dark... and the telly won't go on."

Remus made what he hoped would be an acceptable counteroffer. He had no intention of delving into the wiring behind Ms. Landover's walls. "I'll bring over an extension cord so that we can plug your lamp and television into a socket that does have power. But first I'll take a look at the circuit boxes. You may have just tripped a breaker."

Chelsea's eyes had finally reached Remus' face after a long tour of inspection. She was about to offer her thanks, but started backward slightly as she saw his expression. "Are you all right?"

Remus smiled slowly, firmly resisting the urge to reply, 'No, I'm not. I just tore out the throat of a multiple murderer-rapist with my teeth. He's the third such beastly character to die that way in the past several weeks. And worst of all, there are three more just like him still at large that I intend to kill in order to keep a promise I made to myself. Once that task is complete, I will go back to my proper home among the magic-using population of Britain.'

Instead, he gave his neighbor a severely edited version of one aspect of the truth. "I broke a glass. I cut myself."

Chelsea's gaze darted quickly to each of Remus' hands, then briefly dipped to consider his feet before zigzagging across the great deal of exposed skin available to her view. Puzzled, she asked, "Cut yourself?" Her eyes were drawn back to Remus' towel. With a horrified expression, she asked, "Do you need... help?"

"Oh, no," Remus replied blandly. "I've done as much as I can do. It bled horribly, of course." As Chelsea's wide eyes met his he gave her a slow wink. "You know how some cuts are," he smiled. "I guess now all that's left is to wait to see if anything... falls off."

Chelsea stared open-mouthed, unable to formulate any response to that.

"So let me get dressed, and I'll be over soon. Good bye." Remus gently closed the door. 'Good,' he thought. 'I can tell her I emasculated myself in a dish-washing accident, and - just perhaps - she'll decide I'm not worth further pursuit.'

He tossed his towel back toward the bathroom and went to find some clothes, even as another name pressed itself into his awareness with the same insistence as the name Sydney Pleasant had haunted him for the past few days.

Kevin Talbot.

'Oh, yes. Kevin. Not quite the animal Sydney was, but a murderous bastard none the less. I do wonder what Kevin has gotten up to these days. It should be easy enough to find out. Kevin's trail is usually pretty hard to miss.'

Remus wished he could give himself some respite from his compulsive pursuit of those men he had selected for destruction when he had last lived here; when he had been under the curse of the Wolf, and unable to avoid committing mayhem every twenty-eight nights. Then, he had considered it his most serious responsibility to choose victims who deserved to be visited by the Beast. He had planned ahead, keeping a list of the 'deserving' that stretched at least six months into the future. Now, he had returned to his long-time home in order to complete the work he had planned for himself. He had come back because the very existence of people like Sydney Pleasant offended him deeply. Now that his slavery to the lunar cycle had been broken, he wished he could approach his quest coolly, rationally. But he knew that, whatever distraction he tried to employ, his mind would return inevitably to his fixation on the hunt. The only way he could free himself now was to complete the task he had taken on, remove from the world those men who were undeserving of the privilege of continued existence within it.

Three more to go.


	26. Twelve Months Later Constantine

The other members of Minister-elect Potter's staff were already present in the utilitarian, institutional green-painted conference room as Severus Snape and Deckard Constantine each approached the doorway with long, fluid strides; Snape from the southern corridor, Constantine from the northern. The two men arrived at the room's entrance simultaneously.

They both stopped short, each nodding slightly and extending a hand in the most minimal possible gesture of invitation, each indicating the other should proceed first.

When neither moved, their eyes met. Severus' widened a bit to indicate his impatience with the other's reticence. Deckard raised an eyebrow to underline his own invitation for the other man to pass first. Both remained unmoving.

Lips pressed tightly together, Constantine displayed the barest of smiles. Parting those lips only wide enough to allow speech, he offered, "Welcome, Professor. I'm pleased you could join us. Mister Potter seemed quite enthused to have you participating."

Snape's slow drawl sounded almost bored. "I'm sure the rest of the staff wonders at my being present at all."

"Not in the least. Everyone here knows the Minister elect's story, especially that portion culminating in the events of a year ago. I'm sure all of us realize your importance to Mister Potter's crucial victory over Voldemort. Please, let's go in and get started." The Chief of Staff extended his hand in an ushering gesture once again.

This time, the Potions Master took the opportunity to precede Constantine into the room, reflecting upon what Constantine had revealed in their short exchange. Snape had noted the slight hesitation and look of revulsion on Deckard's face as he pronounced the defeated Dark Lord's name. But as he had said "Voldemort," there was an accompanying shift in the man's expression, a particular intensity that betrayed his thoughts. 'He still sees me as the spy, the double agent, the traitor,' Snape thought bitterly. 'Even though my defection was from an organization of pure evil, which would have brought our entire civilization down; even though my covert efforts within that organization helped destroy the most powerful and dangerous Dark wizard of our time - that will not matter to the people in this room. In government, traitors of any stripe are hated and feared. To these people, loyalty counts more than competence or innovation. Not that Constantine was loyal to his old master once he saw a better opportunity present itself. But somehow I believe that this staff would see their own desertion of Cornelius Fudge and embrace of Harry Potter as simple, practical politics, leaving them free to condemn me without considering their own guilt.'

These thoughts flashed through Snape's mind in an instant, but the Chief of Staff was wasting no time, and interrupted that bitter reflection by calling the meeting to order before he had even reached his seat at the table. There was no formal posturing about this gathering. There would be no reading back of minutes or routine requests for review of old business or submission of new business. The Chief of Staff ran a much more efficient organization than that. He dismissed the staff's most obvious question quickly. "You all know Professor Snape. Mister Potter has asked that he sit in with us starting with this meeting. Dobbs." A wizard with long white hair and an equally long, equally white beard sat up a little straighter upon hearing his name. "What is being discussed?"

Snape found a seat at the long table that dominated the room. Fourteen other wizards were seated around it. Deckard took a chair at the table's head and looked expectantly at Dobbs. Severus carefully remained expressionless, despite the obvious intentional irritation embodied in the Chief of Staff's question. Everyone else in that room would know what Dobbs was supposed to be listening for, and to whom he would be listening. Snape was, therefore, a step behind already, since he had no idea who might be discussing whatever Dobbs was supposed to report.

Dobbs may have been very old, but he answered as quickly as any junior executive. "Tariffs," he said, and glanced around the table, evaluating reactions. "The Eastern Europeans in particular are screaming 'protectionism' again."

"And yet, the countries that complain most loudly are the very ones which continue to subsidize their domestic producers so heavily that they are essentially paying their own people to lose money. That's not business; it's government trying to buy their way into our markets," Constantine replied dismissively. "We should continue to discourage such behavior. Those heavy subsidies merely insure that businesses in those countries remain dependent on government handouts. Allowing imports of ridiculously underpriced merchandise as a result of those subsidies hurts our people by taking business away from them. The Minister can't support lowering tariffs in that situation. Let the lawmakers know - Mister Potter will not be endorsing any softening of our economic protections."

"Mister Potter will not?" Snape murmured.

The corners of Constantine's mouth tightened, but his voice remained level. "This office. The Ministership. The executive branch of our government. How would you rather I put it? Mister Potter is the Minister-elect, and those measures to which he has - to which this office has - given his - our - support have been successful. Those which he has opposed have failed. Those which fail to receive his express support have fared nearly as poorly as those he has openly opposed. This year has been Mister Potter's year despite the challenges that have been placed in his way. It has been the most successful year ever enjoyed by any Minister in history. Government has been done his way. His programs have been the ones adopted. Programs not in Mister Potter's agenda have been forgotten. Officially confirmed as Minister or not, he is the most effective executive this government has ever had."

"Have you actually discussed tariffs with him?" Snape's quiet question was clearly audible throughout the room.

Constantine's sarcastic tone was as cutting as any Snape himself could have employed. "Considering that Dobbs just broached the subject here this morning, what do you think are the chances of my having debated its fine points with the Minister-elect?"

"Practically nil. But as I consider the pattern which has developed over the past year, I wonder whether you had discussed, oh, say... easement right of way regulations prior to the passage of your bill regarding them?" Snape persisted.

Constantine looked satisfied. He had successfully maneuvered the conversation to a point at which he felt comfortable. "Easements? No, Professor, I don't think I took up a great deal of Mister Potter's time talking about carriage paths built by the extremely wealthy. But we did discuss the principles which drove the formation of that very bill of which you speak. And we have discussed - on many occasions, and in some depth - our mutual concerns about fairness in our code of laws, especially as concerns the traditional bias toward pure-bloodedness which is, to this day, firmly ensconced throughout our legal system. Mister Potter, quite naturally, has an intimate understanding of the problems faced by the Muggle-raised wizard. He has, due to the experiences of his closest friends, a concern for the half-blooded and the Muggle-born among us. He has seen the difficulties faced by poor families. And he has, therefore, developed an ideal of fairness in government. He has seen the necessity of even-handedness in dealing with people from all sorts of situations. We have discussed, Professor, his hopes for the future of our civilization. And we have discussed his goals for his administration. It is my job to see that those goals are achieved, and his hopes have some chance of being realized." The Chief of Staff waited for the barest of moments to allow any immediate reply to his comments. He then turned to another wizard and asked, "Helstrom. What have you heard?"

Helstrom was much younger than Dobbs. His glossy brown hair was cropped short, and his face was clean shaven. He smiled and shrugged as his name was called. "Gringotts doesn't allow outsiders much of a view of their workings, but most of us who deal with them regularly think we know what's coming up. We'll see a slight rise in interest rates on loans made starting about a month from now. It won't be much, probably something like a quarter percent. The kind of adjustment they call a 'keeping us honest' increase."

"Who will that hurt?" Constantine prompted.

"New homebuyers, mostly. The youngest families. New business startups. But a quarter percent is not enough to prevent most qualified borrowers from making whatever loans they need. They'll just have to pay a little more for the privilege. And it's not like we can do much about it. The goblins have politely declined every overture we've made to them. Whether we've offered a tax break or a limited partnership or incentives for expansion - Gringotts is perfectly willing to accept any bone we throw their way, but they won't ask us for any favors and they won't agree to make any concessions to us. They refuse to join with us explicitly in any way. We can't say 'you owe us.' Consequently, they can do what they want."

"Good point," Constantine agreed with a curt nod. "We'll avoid the subject in speeches, and if there are any questions that address it specifically, Harry can charitably allow that the goblins' action will help keep inflation in check. Molnoth, could you come up with a bon mot or two on that theme?" A bald wizard with a bright red moustache nodded and dipped his quill into an inkwell. The note he made was the first incidence of writing that Severus had seen in that meeting. "We don't have a major address until..." Constantine held out his hand, fingers poised to snap. Instantly, one of the youngest wizards present said, "Two weeks from Wednesday. Builders Association. Most if not all of the major firms will be there. The greater part of the minor ones, as well, and most likely a good number of independent contractors."

"And they will be after...?"

A burly wizard with flowing brown locks and a medium-length beard leaned forward, scowling. "What won't they be after?" he demanded, looking around the room as though to remind everyone present of his previous statements on the subject. "About the only thing they've given up on is London itself, and they've abandoned that only because there's a snowball's chance of their squeezing another stone in between what's already standing and the Muggle city all around ours. Everything else is on the table, so far as they are concerned. The disturbing thing is that the several builders' associations have begun to cooperate with one another, and they're putting pressure on their local representatives to allow a lot more development than we have ever risked before. The competing builders, working together for a change, have adopted most of Scotland as their poster child to represent unfair government suppression of the construction industry. 'Look at all the empty space,' they say. 'Look at the Muggle disinterest,' they say. They don't give a Knut about the difficulties involved in staying clear of Muggle detection. They don't care that Muggle advances in aerial surveillance and surveying technology have made it nearly impossible to keep our existing homes secret. Their position is going to be that keeping the Muggles in the dark is a Defense priority - and thus, our problem, not theirs. They're also going to point out that if we don't start building some more dwellings, we are going to face a major housing shortage very soon. They have a point, at that."

"You seem to have considered this matter at length," Constantine drawled. "Have you a suggestion as to what our position should be?"

The burly wizard looked somewhat abashed. "Well, no. I mean, we had better start providing some place for people to live, or the whole generation that will be growing into adulthood in the next few years will be moving into Muggle neighborhoods. And whatever they do on the Continent, I don't think that mixed neighborhoods are good for Britain. I say we give the builders some of what they want. That way, we can get some of what we want in return. We could raise funds by mandating use fees for each development, require a certain percentage of developers' land be left pristine as parks and open space within the proposed construction zones, and maybe even ask that some provision be made for concealment and camouflage to prevent unwanted Muggle intrusion into our settlements."

As the staff members considered this, Snape offered a comment, very quietly. "This seems to be a topic that has been under consideration for some time, and yet I don't believe you have taken it up with Mister Potter even once."

Deckard flashed an irritated glance at the Potions Master. "Are you going to repeat yourself all day? I see why you were sent. I don't know why Harry couldn't have simply asked to be kept more fully informed of our discussions, but I have gotten the point. You may cease, now. Mister Potter wishes to be consulted more often and more broadly than has been the case. Fine. Done. I will bring him a full report on each meeting starting with this one. Now, may we continue with the business at hand, or is there another message you need to deliver?"

Snape was unfazed by the Chief of Staff's outburst. Calmly, he countered, "I don't believe you have 'gotten the point' as of yet. While I am sure that Mister Potter would be interested in receiving more detailed reports of the plans that are being made for him by his staff, my observation had a more immediate significance. I am sure that all of you have noted that the Minister-elect's magic often operates in ways different from the familiar spells with which we have all become accustomed?" Snape waited, allowing any one of the staff to interrupt. None did. When he was certain that he had their full attention, he continued. "I have seen the young man perform truly astounding feats involving manipulation of the very fabric of space and time itself. And he has performed those feats without the benefit of a fully-researched spell or even a wand in his hand. I am sure that each of you appreciates the power represented by the popularity of 'The Boy Who Lived.' I am sure that you can - theoretically at least - quantify such qualities as name recognition, and his status as a war hero. But have any of you considered the unique power of his magic? If concealing a new community beneath a twist in the fabric of space is a concern, perhaps the Minister-elect is precisely the individual you require to provide a completely unique and heretofore unconsidered solution."

The table erupted in a buzz of intense conversation. The wizard who had reported on the builders' associations spoke above the hubbub. "If we hadn't considered it before now, we certainly will before Wednesday week."

Constantine let the commotion continue for a short time longer. When the staff members' conversations began to quiet down, he took control of the meeting once again. "Moving on. We have our budgets to submit at the end of this month. The major items will be last, and the Minister-elect will present our grand budget proposal to the lawmakers in four weeks' time. But first, we need to submit our office budgets. Think of what you need, and what Departments will be charged for each requested item. And I want some specificity this time! We'll be looking to order Spellotape and parchment, and I hope you're ready to account for all the quills you've lost over the past year."

The meeting dragged on for another hour. At the end of it, each staff member hustled out of the room with his own assignments. Snape and Constantine were left behind. As both men stood to leave, Deckard asked the Professor a question in a deceptively casual tone.

"Professor Snape, was Harry Potter a good student?"

Snape regarded the other man. Suspiciously, he asked, "What do you mean? He passed his classes. He created fewer disasters than some others in his class."

Deckard smiled condescendingly. "You were his teacher for some five years. You instructed him in the demanding art of Potion making - an art in which I understand you are an acknowledged Master. So I ask you, as a Master, as an experienced teacher, as a perceptive human being: did Mister Potter pick up principles quickly? Could he extrapolate proper action from hints and suggestions? Did he appreciate more than the surface level of what you explained to him? Did he seek out more than the simplest, quickest path to a passing grade in your class?"

"As a child," Severus began, and paused to make sure the qualification had registered. "Mister Potter was egotistical, self-centered, impetuous and infatuated with his own legend. Even with those handicaps, he managed to foil an invasion of our campus by Voldemort himself, thwart a basilisk, and overcome a number of attempts to take his life. I think that I can overlook a certain quality of distraction that Mister Potter displayed in the classroom when I consider that his primary motivation during the first few years of his schooling was avoiding assassination at the hands of Death Eaters specifically assigned to the task."

"Still," Deckard mused. "As I understand it, he was not the most responsive of learners. He was not the most perceptive of students. He was not, in short, the sharpest tool in the shed."

Snape found himself strangely divided. He knew that Constantine had a valid point. And he knew that he, himself, would have propounded that point relentlessly in a different situation. So he observed his own discomfiture with a certain wonder. Nonetheless, he had a valid point to make in contradiction to Constantine's appraisal. "The boy was distracted. He did face a number of attempts on his life, and did suffer from the unwarranted attention his name brought upon him. Since taking on his adult responsibilities, however, Mister Potter has performed admirably."

"Taking on responsibilities, yes," Constantine said, staring into the middle distance. "Without finishing his schooling at Hogwarts, without formal military service, without... well, without any kind of token of accomplishment recognized by the adult world. He killed Voldemort. Or, made him disappear, at any rate. I understand that the so-called Dark Lord was not actually killed."

"A stroke of genius on Mister Potter's part. Voldemort killed becomes Voldemort reembodied quite readily, as evidence will attest. Voldemort has been eliminated."

"And that is Harry Potter's basis for acceptance in the world of mature wizards."

"That... and his development of wandless magic, especially in the field of temporal manipulation, acknowledged as masterful by no less an authority than Albus Dumbledore himself."

"And yet," Constantine paused, meeting Snape's gaze, demanding that his words be considered carefully. "Politics is a social art, developed over millennia by those who realize that working together may be the most difficult magic of all. One young man, whose greatest triumphs have been achieved while working alone, accustomed to circumventing authority in order to accomplish what he deems necessary, willing to trust only his closest friends - that one young man is not going to fare well in a theatre in which accomplished politicians strive for dominance in a game they have played every day for most of their lives. That young man needs my help. He needs the help of every man who was gathered together in this room today. Yourself included."

Snape stared hard into Constantine's eyes. "I'm sure he does," he acknowledged. "But I also know that, when you agreed to work for him, when you tied your fortune to his, you took the dragon by the tail. Mister Potter's sheer power is not to be underestimated. He might be content to remain the figurehead of this government. He might take some satisfaction in creating Muggle-blinding glamours to hide our new housing developments. But, believe me when I say I have seen the evidence. If he were to decide to impose his will upon us all, he has the sheer power to defeat any champion we might raise against him."

"You are saying that he could be tantamount to Voldemort himself."

"If Mister Potter is moved to wrath, we will pine for the days of conflict with our old adversary."

The two men left the room, but Severus worried that the only impression Constantine took from their meeting was that Harry Potter could make possible further property development in the Wizarding world.


End file.
